Dailies
by Strix 4
Summary: We've seen the adventures. But what went on behind closed doors in between action shots? A gaggle of oneshots detailing the daily lives of Roy Mustang and his squad. Hints of Ed/Win, Roy/Riza, and parental Roy/Ed. Rated T for language
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or any of its characters. Just borrowing!_

_To be safe, I don't own West Side Story, either...  
_

**When You're a Jet**

Breda and Havoc were men trained by the military to be faster than their opponents. When the situation called for it, they both could move quickly, faster than most normal men.

But they were having a hell of a time trying to keep up with a pissed off Hawkeye on the run.

The knew the lady was pissed because she totally and completely silent. She wasn't a loud person by any stretch of the imagination, but their antics usually earned a sharp rebuke and a few muttered insults that they all pretended not to hear. This silence, and the frozen, leaden weight of it, was a bad sign.

"We're sorry, sir," Breda said, puffing a little as he struggled to match Hawkeye's pace.

No response.

"We didn't think he'd really do it," Havoc offered lamely. His lungs were still screaming, and he'd already gone so far as to ditch his cigarette two corridors back.

No response. If anything, Hawkeye sensed the exhaustion behind their words and picked up the pace. The other personnel in Eastern Headquarters took one look at Hawkeye's face, at the piece of paper clutched in her fist, and the dust in her hair that looked suspiciously like ashes, and sidled out of the way to safety.

By the time they reached the office, Havoc and Breda were stiff and sore and whimpering like children. The outer office was empty except for Fuery, who was perched dutifully at his switchboard. The door to the inner office, Mustang's office, was firmly shut.

"Hey, what happened?" Fuery asked, tugging off his headphones. "The Colonel stomped in a few minutes ago, and slammed his door without a word." He blinked at the sight of his superior officers. "Why are your uniforms so dirty?"

"On a scale of one to forest fire, how mad did he look?" Havoc asked weakly.

Fuery pushed his glasses up his nose as he considered. He always considered before he answered; words had important weight, and he wouldn't want to say the wrong thing.

"Mad," he decided. "Maybe not as mad as the time Major Elric hid under his desk with the water gun. But pretty close."

Remembering just how terrible the Colonel's wrath had been for the Fullmetal incident, Breda let out high whine of horror.

Hawkeye ignored the men and walked straight to the office door. She would have just barged in, but good manners and a high respect for the military ranking system stopped her. So instead, she gave the door a firm rap.

"Colonel?" she called after two minutes with no response.

"I'm busy, Hawkeye." Mustang's voice, even muffled by the door, was crawling with rage. "I have paperwork to do."

Paperwork? If the Colonel was doing paperwork a good forty-five minutes before the deadline, something was seriously wrong.

With a snarl-like sound, Hawkeye spun away from the door. Breda and Havoc were cowering in the corner, being watched by a very confused Fuery. Both let out a thin scream at the hellfire burning on Hawkeye's face.

"Idiots," she snapped in a voice that was still carefully controlled. "What were you thinking?"

"We're sorry!" Breda wailed once again.

"He forgot to take his ignition gloves off. It's not our fault!" Havoc added.

"It was just a joke!"

"Please don't shoot us!"

"A joke?!" Hawkeye repeated. She uncurled her fist and tossed the blackened piece of paper into Havoc's face. "What the hell is 'West Side Story', and why did you tell the Colonel he was cast in the special military performance of it?"

Over Hawkeye's shoulder, Fuery's glasses slid down his nose as he gaped at the terrified Havoc and Breda.

"They snap," Havoc explained in a tiny voice. "The men in the show, they snap when they come on stage."

"We just did it to tease him," Breda whimpered. "We didn't think he'd do it. He's a state alchemist, he's supposed to _remember_ when he has his ignition gloves on…"

Hawkeye was considering giving in to her itchy trigger finger when the door opened. Ed strolled in, looking supremely unconcerned by the fact that Havoc and Breda were cringing in a corner with Hawkeye looming over them.

"Welcome back, Edward," she said, her voice as cool and calm as ever. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait to give your report. The Colonel is doing paperwork."

Ed shrugged and flopped onto one of the available chairs.

"Whatever. Hey, do you guys know what happened to the training facility out back? It's all burned and black." The teenager let out a jaw-cracking yawn, oblivious to the fact that Havoc and Breda had gone ghost white and limp with terror. "It looks like somebody tried to blow it sky-high!"


	2. Chapter 2

_Still don't own 'em..._

**Growing Pains**

Mustang was in his office, eyeing the forms Hawkeye had brought him with violent dislike, when his walls started shaking. The sole picture on his desk, the one of him and his team, shuddered off the edge and hit the floor. The glass let out a wet snap as it shattered. Instinct had Mustang shoving to his feet, his ignition gloves in hand, even as his logic reminded him that nothing exciting ever happened this far away from Central.

He had to grab Fullmetal, and get the kid away from Headquarters. Damn him, the teenager wouldn't think twice about jumping into battle. Mustang threw open his door, visions of rebels and riots and air raids dancing before his mind's eye.

What greeted him instead was like a scene pulled from a very bad play.

Hawkeye and Havoc were crouched in the center of the room, white-faced and obviously worried. Breda and Falman were in the corner, stuffing their knuckles in their mouths to muffle their laughter. Alphonse Elric was executing some sort of dance step that required him to leap from foot to foot, which explained the shaking walls.

Mustang relaxed as he realized that no, they weren't being attacked. Only to immediately tense once again when he saw just who Havoc and Hawkeye were hovering over.

Fullmetal was on his hands and knees on the floor, retching weakly. The boy's face was the color of month-old milk, and his eyes were all but popping from his skull.

Mustang didn't remember moving; only that he was suddenly at Ed's side.

"What happened? Is he hurt? Why haven't you taken him to the infirmary?" Mustang shouldered Havoc aside and dropped down to the floor. "Fullmetal, can you hear me? Where are you injured?"

Ed opened his mouth to answer, then let out a weak moan and hung his head.

"Brother!"

"It's my fault," Havoc said.

Mustang turned to stare at his second lieutenant.

"You injured Fullmetal?"

"No!" Havoc waved his hands back and forth frantically. "I didn't mean…I just offered…I wasn't thinking!"

"He gave Edward one of his cigarettes," Hawkeye said, glaring daggers at Havoc while she cupped a supportive hand on Ed's shoulder.

At the word 'cigarette', Ed gagged once again.

Mustang rocked back on his heels, torn between laughter and the urge to throttle both Havoc and the oldest Elric.

"Well, hell," he said finally. "Let's get him out of here before he heaves all over the carpet."

The only sound Ed managed as he was carted outside in the arms of his little brother was a pitiful croak.

"Go and get him some water, Al."

The armored boy bounded off at Mustang's order. Hawkeye helped prop Ed up against the wall, while Havoc hovered uncertainly at her back. Breda and Falman had stayed behind, and were no doubt laughing themselves into seizures by now.

"Go back inside," Mustang told Hawkeye. "He'll be fine. He just needs a little fresh air."

Hawkeye nodded. She ran an almost maternal hand down Ed's sweat-soaked braid before getting to her feet and heading back inside the building. Havoc hesitated before following.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to make him sick. I don't even know why I offered him one. It's just…it's so easy to forget sometimes. You know, that he's still a kid."

_It really is_, Mustang agreed silently. As he seated himself in the grass next to the dry-heaving teen, it occurred to Mustang that this was the only time he'd seen him look like what he was; vulnerable, and so very young.

"Go…away," Ed panted, pressing his forehead against his palm. "Don't you have to do some paperwork or something?"

Mustang crossed his arms and leaned against the wall at his back.

"Piles of it," he said dryly. "Go ahead and throw it up. You'll just make yourself sicker trying to hold it in."

Ed shook his head violently, then proceeded to spew all the contents of his stomach across the lawn. Mustang rolled his eyes. He had the most ridiculous urge to pat the boy's back. He knew though, that even in the grips of such miserable heaving, the boy would snap at his hand like a terrier if he tried.

Not that he wanted to try.

After a while, Ed stopped trying to eject his internal organs through his mouth. He lay quiet for a bit, resting his head against his knees and making soft snuffling sounds that Mustang pretended not to hear.

"You don't smoke."

Ed's voice was raspy and rough, and Mustang fought back a grin. The shrimp would get pissed if he saw it, and Mustang really didn't feel like kicking the ass of someone who'd just barely survived a heroic battle against his own gag reflex.

"No."

"But you knew what to do. You knew that I needed fresh air and stuff."

Mustang tapped his fingers lightly against his biceps.

"I smoked my first and only cigarette back in college. Hughes made me, on the night we enlisted in the military." Mustang grimaced at the memory. "I was sicker than a dog. Hughes had to drag me outside so I wouldn't disgrace myself in front of our dorm mates."

"Oh."

Ed rubbed the sweat from his forehead. Mustang continued to tap.

"Hughes always said that it was an initiation. A part of my growing pains. That after I smoked that cigarette, I was a man."

Two golden orbs bounced upwards, swift and shocked. But no contact was made; Mustang was busy burning a hole in the air with his eyes. So Ed dropped his face as quickly as he'd raised it.

He rubbed his quieting stomach. After a while, he wiped his mouth.

"Oh," he said again, but much softer this time.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Happy Valentine's Day everyone! Thanks to everyone who reviewed...I really appreciate the support. _

_I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any or its characters. Again.  
_

**Round Two**

It became a common practice for a large crowd to gather outside the training facility whenever the Elric brothers returned from a mission. Always itching to be on the road, and working towards their goal, the boys would have impromptu sparring matches to keep themselves from getting too fidgety. The first one to witness this phenomena was Breda, who had been seeking out Major Elric on Colonel Mustang's behalf. Watching two boys fight with such skill and precision left him completely flabbergasted, and he wasted no time in running his mouth to the rest of the personnel at Headquarters. Since most of them harbored a secret fascination with the fourteen-year-old alchemist and his gigantic younger brother, they began flocking to the training room on a regular basis, whenever Major Elric was back in town.

If the brothers were embarrassed by the sea of faces pressed against the windows, they certainly didn't show it.

Mustang was unaware of this little ritual until the day he opened the door of his inner sanctum, only to find the outer office empty of all but Hawkeye.

"Where is everyone?" he demanded.

Hawkeye never looked up from the paperwork she was filing. She was far too used to the Colonel's moods to be fazed by his surly tone.

"Major Elric and his brother are back, sir."

"I know that," Mustang snapped. "Fullmetal gave me what could loosely be called a report half an hour ago. What does that have to do with the office being empty?"

"If the Elrics are back," she said, squinting hard a difficult passage, "then that means everyone is down at the training facility, watching them fight."

"Fight? Why are they fighting?"

"Fighting in the physical sense, sir, not arguing. Alphonse and Major Elric enjoy sparring with each other."

Roy rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

"Sparring," he repeated. "And my men like to watch?"

Hawkeye made some minute changes to the file she was working on. It was one of Mustang's, and a combination of disinterest and procrastination on the Colonel's part made proofreading his papers necessary.

"Not just your men," she said. "All of Headquarters turns out to watch sometimes. Apparently, it's quite the show."

Approximately ten seconds later, Mustang was halfway down the hallway, with Hawkeye hot on his heels. He made it to the training facility in record time, although he made sure to slow his gait a couple of corridors ahead, so that his frantic dash would look more like his customary stroll.

Just as Hawkeye had promised, the crowd around the training facility bordered on being ridiculous. By taking an idle inventory of faces, Mustang could tell that throughout Headquarters at least twenty phones would be unmanned, around thirty computers would be abandoned, and what looked like several pieces of heavy machinery would be sitting driver-less on the lawn.

Distantly, he could hear the trademark battle sounds of Edward Elric. Mustang had heard the boy yell so much, he could probably pick the sound out of a crowd of fifty thousand screaming adolescents. Mustang could also hear the solid sounds of metal hitting metal, of metal hitting flesh, and of flesh hitting the floor.

He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, which was easy because as soon as they saw him coming, half the personnel instantly vacated the premises. No doubt the telephone and computer records would be extremely diligent for the next twenty-four hours.

Mustang and Hawkeye entered the training facility just in time to see Ed fly at Al's chest with his automail foot extended. Al blocked the kick, and the sound of the meeting metals sent another large noise reverberating through the room.

"That was a good one, Brother," Al said, as the two continued to circle each other. "You almost got me that time."

Despite that fact that he was crouched over in fighting stance, Ed let out a laugh.

"Damn it all, Al, one of these days I'm going to knock you right on your big, metal butt."

Mustang folded his arms over his chest.

"So this is what you were doing, instead of writing me a decent report," he called.

Ed pivoted, straightening out of fighting stance. He spotted the Colonel, and his golden eyes narrowed in speculation. A terrifying smile stretched his face.

"Yeah, this is what I've been doing," he said. "Do you want a turn?"

Mustang smirked.

"We've already played this game, Fullmetal. As I recall, I blasted you across the fighting grounds."

"Only because you cheated!" Ed shot back instantly. "And we ended with my sword at your throat, remember?"

Mustang rolled his shoulders and did his best to look supremely unconcerned. Ed dropped into a crouch again and raised his fists.

"Come on," he called. "Step into my office. Or are you afraid?"

"Brother, what are you doing?" Al asked, his voice high and slightly hysterical.

"What makes you think this time will be any different?" Roy asked.

"No alchemy inside the sparring ring," Ed said, skipping right over Al's frantic words. "And when it comes to hand-to-hand, I've got the advantage."

"You think so?"

Mustang started to unbutton his jacket.

"Sir," Hawkeye said. "The General will be upset if you and Fullmetal decimate the building."

Mustang ignored her warning, even as he laid his jacket and ignition gloves in her hands. Across the room, Ed was also disregarding Al's worried rant. His golden eyes were eager as they locked on the man heading in his direction.

"No alchemy," Ed repeated as Mustang stepped into the ring. "First person to use it loses by default."

"I've got it."

Al stood by Hawkeye now, and watching his brother square off against the much taller and very intimidating Colonel had the boy wringing his giant hands.

"This is a bad idea," he said, mostly to himself. "A very bad idea. Brother, why do you have to be so stubborn?"

Behind Al, Breda, Havoc, and Falman grinned and rubbed their hands together.

"This is going to be amazing," Havoc whispered, almost worshipfully.

"Bets!" Breda called to the crowd behind him. "Place your bets here, ladies and gentleman! Don't miss out on the most exciting fight of the century!"

………………………………

* * *

Twenty-five minutes later, Breda re-entered the room, carrying cups of coffee for Hawkeye and himself. The first lieutenant was leaning up against the wall, her arms folded. Al was seated on the floor by her feet.

"Are they still at it?" he asked, handing Hawkeye her mug.

"Maybe we should stop them now," Al suggested, propping his metal chin in his palm.

Hawkeye sighed. She sipped at her coffee and kept her eyes fixed on Mustang, and Major Elric. The two had long since abandoned any fighting style, and were now wrestling on the floor like a couple of children on a playground. Around them, the floor was dented from the force of the falls, the walls had several suspicious holes, and the ceiling was smoking from Ed's accidental alchemy use. From what Hawkeye could see, the Colonel had a black eye, and several small cuts revealed by the rips in his uniform. The Major had a bloody nose, and had been limping a little the last time he'd been standing.

"Really, Alphonse, do you think yours will listen to you?" she asked. "Because mine never does."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: It struck me while writing the last addition that there is a connection within Fullmetal Alchemist that often goes unnoticed. I know a few other authors have picked up on it as well. This is my interpretation of it. Thanks to everyone that read/reviewed...hope you're enjoying the story so far!  
_

_Don't own it, never will. The mantra of this site.  
_

**What They'll Never Say**

The Elric brothers were an island unto themselves. Whenever they were back from a mission, and wandering around base, one hardly ever ventured out without the other. They were a unit. Blood tied them together, obviously, but oddly enough, so did metal. The harder parts of them were a constant reminder of what they'd lost, and what they were fighting so hard to recover. The love between them was so plain, so stark and expressed by everything that they did.

They bickered, as brothers often do. Stray animals that Al didn't have the heart to leave alone, Ed's occasional regression into the teenager he really was, nothing more than fodder for the friendly arguments most siblings indulged in. But when they fought, and fought for real, everyone felt the aftershocks.

One afternoon, a small revelation on Ed's part escalated to a shouting match in the middle of Mustang's office. The Colonel's subordinates squirmed in supreme discomfort, Mustang hovered in his doorway with folded arms and a scowl, and Hawkeye watched with quiet observation. Harsh words were bandied back and forth, all though the majority of them came from Ed, who was much more likely to strike first and feel sorry later. Al didn't have it in him to hurt anyone, not really. And especially not the one he cared for the most.

"Why don't you get off my case, Al?" Ed finally shouted, face flushed and bristling with rage. "I don't need someone looking over my shoulder all the time, trying to tell me what to do! I had a mother, remember?"

Instantly, the line was crossed, and everybody knew it, even Ed. The color drained from his face, and his eyes widened as he realized just what he'd said in the heat of his anger. Al recoiled, as if Ed had struck him, and made a soft sobbing sound inside his armor. The tension in the room skyrocketed, because it suddenly came from all occupants. Watching the Elrics fight was unsettling somehow, and they all wanted to help, to repair what was so obviously _wrong_. Even Mustang made a sort of helpless, fluttering movement that he swiftly aborted.

In the end they could only stay where they were, uncertain and irrationally saddened.

Al took a shuddering breath, one that he didn't need.

"Fine," he said, and his voice was devastating in its softness. "I won't bother you any more, Brother. I'll leave you alone."

Al always moved with a certain stiffness; that was the byproduct of having a body made of metal. But the way he walked from the room was more than his typical rigidness. It was the walk a soldier might have after getting injured on the battle field; the walk of someone in serious pain.

Ed stood completely still. All the rage was gone from his body; his arms hung limply at his sides. His face was ghost white, his golden eyes were twice their normal size. Watching Al walk away had set off a kind of buzzing panic in the back of his mind, and it was hard to think around it.

"Al," he whispered.

Al limped down the hallway with no real destination in mind. His gigantic arms were crossed over his stomach plate, as if he'd been stabbed there and his hands were the only thing keep his nonexistent organs in. A face circled in his mind, a face he wanted desperately to see again, a face that Ed's words had drilled into his brain like an ice pick.

Eventually he found an empty storage room, and settled himself inside it. He drew his knees up to his chest and laid his head on his folded arms. His armor rattled with every tearing breath he took. He wanted, wanted so badly, to cry. But metal didn't shed any tears.

The door opened, and was quietly closed again.

"Go away, Brother," Al whispered into his knees. "I'm leaving you alone, like you said."

"Alphonse."

Al started at the unexpected voice. He lifted his head, and Hawkeye was there, standing over him. Her sherry eyes were soft. Her eyes were almost always kind, even when she was acting tough. It was one of the things Al liked about her.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I…don't know," Al said. "It was so stupid. Ed went for a walk last night. He does that, because sometimes he needs to clear his head." He rubbed his chin against his knees. "He ran into Scar, and they fought. But he didn't tell me, not until this afternoon. He never tells me." Al's voice hitched. "Because I'm a burden. I weigh him down."

He buried his face again. There was a long moment of silence, and then a soft hand touched Al's shoulder. When he looked back up, Hawkeye was kneeling in front of him.

"You're smarter than that, Alphonse," she said simply. "You know that's not true."

"But why else would he keep things from me? Having me with him is an inconvenience. He said so himself."

"People like Ed, they say things. Things they don't always mean." Hawkeye smiled a little. "I know."

If Al's eyes could have widened, they would have. Of _course_ she knew. She understood because it was the same for her. There was someone, someone she cared about as unconditionally as Al cared for Ed. There had always been a kind of connection between Al and Hawkeye, something that shimmered on the air between them whenever they saw each other. But Al had never understood it, or what it was, until now.

It was recognition.

"They think they're the strong ones. And they are, in their own way. They hurt the ones they are closest to, because they think that they need to protect us. But deep down, they know just how much they depend on us. They'll never say it, of course. But on some level they do understand. We protect them from themselves, so that they can continue to protect others."

Al listened, completely still and silent.

"Our job isn't always an easy one, Alphonse," Hawkeye continued quietly. "They'll hurt us more often than not, even if it is accidental. They'll try to drive us away when we get too close, close enough to see their weaknesses. But we can't let them. They need us, Alphonse. We live our lives for them, and so without us, they will fall apart."

Still smiling that gentle smile, Hawkeye stepped back and held out a hand. Al took it and used it to climb to his feet. The two looked at each other for a moment, in perfect understanding.

Then came the sound of pounding feet, and the door was thrown open.

"Al!" Ed cried.

Hawkeye stepped back as the boy came barreling into the room like a small tornado. His face was completely white, and when he reached out to give Al a sock on the arm, his hand was shaking.

"You idiot! Why'd you go running off like that? There are just as many people after you as there are after me, you know! How am I supposed to protect you if you're not with me?"

Al could have called it fair play. He could have said it was equivalent exchange, his brother's worry for his own. But instead he bowed his head.

"I'm sorry, Brother," he said. "You're right. I shouldn't have run off." He brought his hand to his arm, where Ed's trembling fist had touched him. "I promise, I won't leave you again."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hawkeye nod, and smile.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Again, a big thank you to everyone who reviewed the story, or just stopped by to read it. I hope you're having fun with it! This chapter contains subtle hints of Royai and Ed/Win. Very subtle (I promise to go in depth a little more in later chapters). Happy reading!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**Alliance**

It was easy to forget sometimes. He wasn't like he was supposed to be, not really, and given a change in circumstances, he might have been different. But he walked down the hallway straight and with shoulders back, like a grown-up. His eyes focused on the faces of those he spoke to with an unsettling intensity. He lived his life for someone else, selfless to a degree that some adults never even achieved. So it was easy, unbelievably easy, to forget sometimes when looking at him.

But Edward Elric was a teenager, and that wasn't something even he could suppress all the time.

His wilder side slipped out just frequently enough to keep everyone at Eastern Headquarters on edge. When Ed gave in to his age, he did so with the same reckless abandon he used for everything he did. He was notorious for pulling pranks. Sometimes it was something as simple as transmuting Havoc's cigarettes into chalk when the other man left the room. Occasionally he went all out, and proved once again just how much of a prodigy he really was.

The entire staff of Eastern Headquarters was still completely at a loss for how he had managed to create such believable looking ghosts while simultaneously triggering an alchemic reaction that shut down all the power within the building.

So, whenever the Elric brothers were at the base for more than a week, the staff took metaphorical (and sometimes literal) cover and waited for the latest explosion.

Ed wasn't yet to the point of having to blow something up to alleviate his boredom, but he was fidgety enough to regress back to the badgering that accompanied his actual age. Colonel Mustang was his favorite target (it took a while to break down that cool composure, but it was always worth once he got through), and so Ed was parked on the couch in his office. His feet were up on the table, because he knew Mustang hated it, and he observed with almost maniacal glee how far he'd brought the older man already. Mustang's right eye was twitching dangerously, and he was grinding his teeth hard enough that Ed could hear it. And all Ed had done so far was suggest that Mustang ask Hawkeye on a date.

Okay, maybe that wasn't exactly the way he'd phrased it. What he'd actually said had been more along the lines of telling Mustang to remove his head from his ass and ask Hawkeye out already, because anyone with half a brain could see how stuck he was on her.

"I mean, it's not like you're fooling anybody," Ed said, flopping back against the seat and surveying his handiwork with great enjoyment. "Why don't you just tell her you like her already?"

Mustang drilled two fingers into his temple, obviously attempting to ease the ache Ed had established there.

"Because I'm not in middle school," he snapped. "You make it sound like I should have a friend hand her a note I wrote in study hall."

"Actually, that sounds about right for someone like you. You should give it a try. From what I hear, it would be a step up from your usual method anyway."

Mustang lowered his hand and rubbed his fingers together, as if the urge to give one good snap and blast Ed into oblivion was quickly becoming a physical one.

"There are complications," Mustang hissed. "Reasons why I am currently unable to seek a more substantial relationship with the Lieutenant. I have to look out for her interests, as well as mine."

Was he actually _defending_ himself, and to this obnoxious brat? How was it that Ed always knew exactly what buttons to push to get his blood pumping, when most people had never even seen him drop his carefully constructed composure?

And, damn it all to hell, if the kid didn't wipe that big, shit-eating grin off of his face, Mustang was going to forget the control he prided himself on and flame the boy into a blob on the carpet.

Ed shrugged, rolling his shoulders with careless insolence.

"Or you're just afraid she'll shoot you down," he said lightly.

"And why would I ever take dating advice from you, Fullmetal?" the Colonel exploded. "Have you ever even _had_ a girlfriend? Or are you…Hmmm."

Mustang cut himself off mid-sentence. After a short pause, he relaxed back into his seat and a small smirk curved his mouth. Instantly, Ed went on automatic alert. When smiling, Mustang was never to be trusted.

"All right, Fullmetal," Mustang said, and the amusement in his voice only raised Ed's red flag a little higher. "I'll make you a deal. I'll tell Lieutenant Hawkeye that I like her as more than a friend…as soon as you call your automail mechanic back in Resimbool and tell her the same thing."

At once, Ed was on his feet, his fists raised and his face turning a rather alarming shade of red. He opened his mouth to deliver one of his famous rants ( a rant that Mustang was already settling back to enjoy), but he never got the chance. Before he could utter so much as one shriek of rage, the door to Mustang's office flew open, all but bursting off the hinges.

Through it danced Major Armstrong, on a wave of bulging muscles and pink glitter.

"Gentlemen!" he cried in his booming voice. "I couldn't help but overhear! If wooing the ladies is a burden weighing heavy upon your hearts, please allow me to offer my assistance!"

The gigantic man stopped in the center of the room, oblivious to the horrified looks coming from both Flame and Fullmetal. He clasped his hands together-hands the size of Mustang's head-and his blue eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

"Refined and chivalrous decorum has been passed down in my family for generations, along with the use of beautiful and artistic alchemy. The Armstrong line is famous for its superior skill in winning the hearts of genteel and well-mannered young maidens. Oh, what a happy day for you, to find yourselves partaking in such an exemplary tradition!"

Mustang looked at the small and curious crowd that had gathered outside his door, a crowd that included Lieutenant Hawkeye. Then he met Ed's golden eyes and bared his teeth in a savage grin.

The explosion rocked the office, and sent a small shudder racing through Eastern Headquarters in its entirety.

The staff looked up for a brief moment, before returning to their duties with a communal sigh of relief. Now that the ground was rocking beneath their feet, they knew that they had at least four days of relative peace before the next boredom-inspired explosion. When Major Armstrong wandered out a bit later, his uniform badly singed and covered in what looked like pond slime, the staff only shook their heads and gave thanks that they weren't the targets of this particular attack.

Mustang's secretary almost died in shock, however, when she heard the Colonel and Major Elric actually _agreeing_ about something.

From what she could make out through the office door, they both declared that it was the most satisfying display of alchemy they'd used in a long time.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks for the continued support everyone! I really appreciate your feedback. _

_Don't own it. Never will.  
_

**Safe**

Mustang hated the Eastern Headquarters building after dark. It was true that there were always people there, putting in overtime to further their own ambitions. But the shadows hid them, and stalked Mustang down the corridor. They didn't frighten him, but he worried that they might startle him into acting instinctively.

He'd only flamed that painting of the late General once, and it had been an honest accident. But his men still wouldn't let him forget it.

Mustang tucked his hands in his pockets as he hurried to the office, just to be safe. He wouldn't be here at all, but he had a massive amount of paperwork due on Monday, and if he showed up then with none of it ready, Hawkeye would probably just draw her gun and shoot him dead.

Silently bemoaning the fact that he would have to spend his Saturday working, Mustang pushed open the door to the outer office. It was dark and quiet, and it seemed empty somehow without Fuery perched at the switchboard, or Havoc sitting with the window cracked so he could fill his lungs with smoke.

Mustang turned to open the door to his inner office, when something stopped him cold. A soft light was illuminating the cracks around the door. Mustang's hand froze on the doorknob as he reminded himself that he had indeed shut his lamp off before going home. Even if he hadn't, Hawkeye would have done it for him.

Mustang took his hand off the door and dipped it instead into his ignition glove. His fingers raised and ready, he pressed his ear against the door and listened. After a moment, he heard a sound. A faint cry, quickly muffled.

Someone was in there. Someone was in there, and they sounded like they were hurt, or on the receiving end of an attack.

Mustang threw the door open and stormed in, his dark eyes scanning the shadows. He relaxed into confused relief when he realized that there was only one person in the room and, apparently, he was fast asleep.

Edward Elric was curled up on Mustang's couch. An alchemy book was open on the table in front of him, and a still-warm cup of coffee was sitting next to it. It should have been sweet, or somewhat silly, catching Ed passed out like a regular teenager cramming for an exam. But the scene was ruined by the fact that Ed's slumber was obviously anything but serene. Even from a distance, Mustang could see that Ed's hands were curled into fists, and his body was hunched into a tight and protective ball.

After a moment, Ed shifted restlessly, and made that same hurting and hopeless noise that Mustang had heard from the outer office. As the Colonel moved closer, he could see that Ed's brow was furrowed and beaded with sweat, and the boy's face was completely white.

Mustang recognized the symptoms immediately; after all, he'd suffered under them himself often enough. Ed was caught in the fang-filled jaws of a nightmare, and a bad one by the looks of it.

He couldn't leave him there. Mustang had battled through many of his nightmares alone; he knew how awful it was to feel trapped and helpless in the dark. So he reached down and gave the boy's twisting shoulder a firm shake.

"Edward."

The boy shot up instantly, his automail hand clamping down instinctively on Mustang's wrist. For a moment, Ed looked at him, and a hot little ball of panic bounced in Mustang's stomach. Golden eyes were dull with horror and terrifyingly blank. There was nothing of Ed's spark in those eyes, nothing of Ed at all.

Mustang cleared his throat and gave his wrist a polite tug.

"Hands off, Fullmetal," he said, his voice deliberately cool. "If you accidentally transmute me into a rug or something, Hawkeye will kill you."

The tight lump of fear in Mustang's gut smoothed out as awareness returned to Ed's face, little by little.

"Mustang." Ed's voice was rough. "What are you doing here?"

"You're in my office," Mustang reminded him dryly. "I should be asking you that." He raised an eyebrow and gave the wrist Ed was still clinging to another little shake. "Do you mind?"

"Oh. Right."

Ed released him, and Mustang resisted the urge to rub his fingers over the abused appendage. Those automail fingers had actually bruised him quite badly, but it wouldn't benefit Ed at all to know it.

"What _are_ you doing here?" Mustang asked, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Ed scrubbed a weary fist over his face.

"Couldn't sleep," he said.

"Don't you and Al have a room?"

Ed shrugged.

"Al worries when I don't sleep. I wanted to get some reading done, but if I stayed in our room, Al would just pester me until I went to bed. The library's closed, and most of the offices around here are locked."

Mustang rocked back on his heels.

"As I recall, I asked Hawkeye to lock up before she left."

Ed snorted. A weak smile, a shadow of his typical sneer, curved his lips.

"I could be in any of those offices if I wanted," he reminded the Colonel, waving his automail hand as evidence. "I just didn't feel bad about breaking into yours."

"Shocking." Mustang tilted his head as Ed yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. "When's the last time you slept?"

"Five minutes ago, moron. You woke me up, remember?"

"I meant real sleep," Mustang said. "You look like absolute crap, Fullmetal."

It was true. Ed's eyes were bloodshot, and the shadows under them were so dark, they looked like bruises. His cheeks seemed sunken, and his shoulders were rounded under the weight of his exhaustion.

"None of your business."

"I could make you tell me," Mustang pointed out. "I'm your superior, after all."

"_You_ are a superior pain in my-"

Mustang huffed out a laugh that held traces of relief and shoved Ed's book in his face.

"Read your book then, Fullmetal."

As Ed lowered the book, he saw that Mustang was moving towards his desk, draping his coat across the back of his beloved chair.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Mustang settled himself in and picked up his pen.

"I have paperwork. That's why I'm at the office so late."

Ed set his book in his lap.

"You're going to do it here?"

He hadn't planned on it. He'd meant to scoop the papers into a haphazard pile and attack them from the comfort of his own bed.

"Where else would I be?"

Ed frowned thoughtfully at the pages balanced on his knee, and shrugged.

They worked in silence. Mustang filed paper after paper, until his fingers cramped and his brain cried mercy, and kept one eye on Ed. The teenager was caught up in a battle as old as time, the fight against exhaustion. Ed would skim the pages in front of him, until his eyes drooped and his head bobbed. Then he would catch himself and jerk upright, casting a quick and embarrassed glance in Mustang's direction.

Mustang always made sure to appear diligently occupied when Ed's eyes cut his way. But after Ed jerked himself awake so hard that he smacked himself in the face with his book, Mustang thought it a prudent time to voice his opinion.

"Shutting your eyes helps sometimes. Just for a minute or two, so you can reorganize your thoughts."

He didn't suggest sleep, because he knew that if he did, Ed would do the opposite out of sheer obstinacy and spite. But the teenager didn't even argue. Instead he pressed his cool metal fingers over his face.

"I can't," he admitted. "Not even for a second."

"Avoiding sleep won't make the nightmares go away. In fact, once you finally do drop out of sheer exhaustion, they'll just get worse."

Ed's shoulders jerked straight.

"Aren't you supposed to lie to me?" he demanded with a glare. "Tell me that they'll go away with time?"

The Colonel never raised his head from his paperwork.

"What would be the point? They won't, and my lying to you won't change that." Mustang tapped his pen against his desk and pretended to read the sheet in front of him. "You'll see those faces, and hear those sounds, for the rest of your life. Better to get used to them now."

"I didn't tell you what I was dreaming about."

Mustang's smile was small, and flavored with self-mockery.

"Please don't," he said. "I have my own nightmares to deal with. I don't need to see yours as well."

Ed stared at the man sitting behind the desk. It was so easy to forget sometimes, because he had such well developed masks. But Roy Mustang had seen his fair share of horror. No doubt the demons that haunted his sleep ran in the same league as Ed's.

"Please stop gaping at me, Fullmetal. It's distracting, and I have a lot of work to do. In fact, I'll probably be here all night."

Ed jerked, and immediately lowered his eyes back to his book. This time, however, a tiny smile crept across his face as he read the words in front of him.

When Alphonse burst in, shortly before dawn and half frantic with worry, Mustang was still sitting behind his desk, cradling a cup of coffee and watching the light outside change from black to soft shades of gray.

Ed was completely passed out on the couch. His face wasn't that of someone enjoying peaceful and pleasant dreams, but his brow was no longer furrowed and his hands were tucked loosely under his chin.

Draped around his snoozing shoulders was a bright blue coat.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Sorry for the short wait, but I'm back and a year older to boot. Thanks, once again, to everyone that reviewed or just stopped by to read. You guys rock!_

_I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters  
_

**Education**

Al sat outside the shut door, his gigantic knees pressed against his chest. The muted sunlight, struggling to shine through a half-open window, hit Al's armor and fragmented. Al watched the light patterns being made and listened with half an ear to the really heroic amount of noise coming from behind the closed door. This particular symphony of sounds was as familiar as Brother's face; he couldn't remember a period of time in his life when he'd been without it.

At least, it was familiar to Al, and therefore it didn't bother him. But there were other people inside Headquarters, and the noise really was bordering on ridiculous. Al didn't know whether to be amused or insulted by the fact that everyone who'd expressed concern over the amount of sound had stopped once they'd seen it was connected with an Elric.

Havoc turned into the corridor, tapping his pack of cigarettes against his palm. He stopped when he saw Al, curled up patiently outside the door.

"Hey, Al," he said. "What're you doing out here?"

Before Al could answer, a pair of shrieks battered against the door, so loud that the window rattled.

"Do you know how long it takes to make a quality piece of automail? Weeks, and all because you can't take care of it! I mean, it's not like I'm making new parts for anything useful…like height adjustments!"

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE COULD SLED BACKWARDS ON A COAT BUTTON?!"

Al sighed, and gamely swallowed a laugh at Havoc's horrified expression as he realized who was behind the door.

"Ah," he said. "Our friend Winry is visiting from Resimbool. She sort of surprised us, and Ed didn't have a chance to…um…clean up his automail before he saw her. She's the one that makes it for him, you see."

Havoc attempted to pick up his jaw, which was hanging in the vicinity of his shoes.

"She called the Major short," he whispered. "Does…does she have a death wish?"

"Honestly, Ed, you're such a reckless klutz! How do you expect me to keep making these for you when you're so hell-bent on breaking them with your stupidity?"

"I'm not stupid! Maybe if you made it a little better, my automail wouldn't break every time I tapped someone!"

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"

Al sighed and rubbed hand over the back of his metal neck.

"She's just…high-spirited," he explained. "Actually, she and Brother have a lot in common. They're both so proud."

Havoc's face drained of all color. He swayed dangerously on the spot, and Al worried for a moment that the man might faint at his feet.

"Alphonse," he finally said in a strangled whisper. "Are you telling me that she's like Ed? That there's a _female_ version of your brother walking around?"

"I guess you could say that."

If at all possible, the volume behind the door escalated.

"My automail is the best there is, you arrogant alchemy freak!"

"Don't call me a freak, you auto-junkie!"

"Hand-clapping party magician!"

"Obsessive wrench lover!"

"GLORIFIED REPAIR MAN!"

"LOUD-MOUTHED HARPY!"

_THUNK_.

Al winced sympathetically as the sound reverberated through the door. Ed released a sound that a watermelon might make when smashed with a hammer, and then there was silence.

Havoc's eyes were all but popping from his skull, and the only color in his face was a faint shade of green.

"What happened? Is it over?"

"Well…,"

The door burst open, and Havoc jumped back with a scream that his fellow officers would have shot him for. On the threshold stood a figure that was all but vibrating with rage. Long blonde hair fell around a face white with fury, and dominated by huge blue eyes snapping sparks more powerful than any Mustang's gloves had ever produced. In her delicate fist she clutched a wrench big enough to set Havoc's knees shaking.

"Alphonse," she snarled. "Tell your brother that he can come beg me to fix his automail once he's done being an idiot."

"Okay, Winry."

Havoc made himself as small and insignificant-looking as possible as the girl swept by, stomping down the hallway hard enough to shake the paintings.

Al picked himself up and ducked inside the now-open door, Havoc hot on his heels. The room inside looked like the victim of some natural disaster. Pieces of furniture were ripped, tipped, and scattered. Papers that had previously been in neat piles covered the rug like snow. And in the midst of it all, the Fullmetal Alchemist lay flat on his back, his eyes spinning like roulette wheels and a small continent growing on his forehead.

"Brother," Al sighed.

He picked his way through the wreckage of the room like someone who'd seen and survived this particular war many times. He scooped Ed off of the floor and set him on his metal lap so that he could check the bump.

"Well, it's not bleeding," he said. "Winry's aim must be off today."

The answer Ed gave was nothing more than a string of vowels sounds.

"Honestly, Brother," Al said, as he waited for Ed's vision to consist of more than a galaxy of stars. "When are you going to figure out that there's a way to flirt with Winry without forcing her to beat you up?"

"Flirting?" Havoc's voice jumped at least seven octaves. The high-pitched sound forced a pitiful moan of pain from Ed's mouth, as it drilled a spike into his throbbing head. "What do you mean, flirting? They were screaming at each other!"

"Well, sure," Al agreed. "That's just the way they do things. I told you they were a lot alike, remember? And you know how stubborn and hard-headed _Brother_ is…"

The sound Havoc made was something akin to a squeak.

"Flirting," he repeated dumbly. "That was flirting. Then what will they be like when they actually get together?" Al didn't think it was possible for Havoc's face to lose any more color, but now the man went positively translucent. "_What if they have kids? _Oh, God. I have to…go. I have to…warn the Colonel."

The personnel that caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Havoc returning from his cigarette break later agreed that the poor man was in dire need of a vacation, as he was obviously on the edge of a complete and total breakdown. Why else would he be stumbling down the hall like someone staggering away from a fistfight, and mumbling under his breath, disjointed sentences about psychotically violent demon children and the end of the world?


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Again, a big thanks for all the support I've gotten. Reading the reviews and watching the hit rate rise is an extraordinary motivator, and I'm extremely grateful to all of you for that. Enjoy!_

_I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or any of its characters.  
_

**Won't Let It Be You**

"_Damn _it!"

A hard automail hand slapped the table, rattling the wood and sending carefully stacked books tumbling to the floor. Alphonse looked up from the page he'd been puzzling over. Ed was on his feet, his face the picture of frustration.

"Another dead end. This is pointless, Al. We're never going to find a real philosopher's stone!"

Al rubbed a hand over the back of his metal neck and gave a little sigh. This new lead had been promising, but only as much as any of the others. Still, the brothers had researched it with the same vigor, the same secretly hopeful dedication. The evidence of how hard they'd worked was stamped on Ed's face, evident in the shadows under his eyes and the hair tousled by frustrated fingers.

"Don't say that, Brother," Al said, battling back his own disappointment. "We'll find a philosopher's stone. We will. We just haven't found the right lead yet."

Ed kicked back his chair and paced the private library room.

"And what if there is no right lead?" he asked, his words hot with aggravation. "What if the reason why no one has ever found a real philosopher's stone is because it actually doesn't exist?"

This was an old argument, and one the Elrics revisited with increasing frequency. One would doubt, the other would parry, and then they'd go round and round until a new resolve was established.

But today, Al couldn't quite seem to work up the optimism that his brother was looking for.

"And what if it doesn't?" he asked quietly. "What do we do then, Brother? Do we adjust? Try to find a way to live as we are?"

Ed faltered in the middle of contemplating whether or not kicking the bookshelf would relieve some of his irritation. Al was disrupting the rhythm of this argument, and when he looked over to figure out why, he saw his younger brother sitting with his giant shoulders stooped and his eyes fixed on his folded hands.

"Al," Ed said, moving back to the table.

Al bowed his head and didn't meet his brother's eyes. Ed ran a helpless hand over his face, battling back the familiar frustration of seeing his younger brother in pain and being unable to help. It burned the back of his throat like acid, made him want to scream at the unfairness of it.

Why, when it had been Ed's mistake that cost them, had Al paid the heavier price?

"No, Al. We won't adjust. I won't leave you to live your life this way, unable to touch, or taste, or feel." Ed bowed his head, so that his hair fell over his face. "I made you a promise. I won't stop until I find a way to get you back, with or without a philosopher's stone."

Al shifted away from the table. He dropped to his knees on the floor and started picking up the books Ed had scattered.

"Without the philosopher's stone, we can't duck the law of the equivalent exchange," Al reminded his brother softly.

"I know."

"And what would you be using to pay the price it would take to get my body back?"

Ed curled his fists on the table.

"Whatever I have left," he murmured.

Al looked down at the thick tome in his hands, and then wound up and heaved it at his brother's head. It hit Ed right in between the eyes, nearly flattening him to the floor. He pin wheeled for a moment, releasing a strangled sound of pain and surprise.

"Ouch!" he shouted, cupping a hand over his face. "What the hell, Al? What was that for?"

Al got to his feet.

"Didn't you hear anything I said after Scar blew off your arm?" Al shouted right back. "Self-sacrifice isn't a part of our plan, Ed! You are not allowed to kill yourself out of some misplaced sense of nobility! It's my body, if anyone's paying for it, it's going to be me!"

"Why would I let you pay for my mistake?" Ed shot back. "I'm the older brother, Al. Shut up and stop arguing with me."

Al made a frustrated sound inside his armor and dropped the books on the table. A soft silence fell over the room, as Al continued to scoop up books and Ed watched him out of troubled eyes.

Finally, he said; "I've told you before, Al. This isn't your burden. I made this mistake, and now I'm going to fix it. All you have to do is make sure that there's something left for me to fix."

Al slapped the last few books onto the table and raised his red eyes to Ed's golden ones.

"And I've told _you_, Brother, that we both made this mistake. It's both of our faults. So it isn't right for you to take this all on yourself."

Ed shook his head and dropped back down in his seat. He was smiling now, a tiny smile that had nothing to do with joy.

"If we can't find the philosopher's stone," he said. "If we can't ignore the laws. One of us is going to have to pay the price to fix the other. But that's a one-sided equivalent exchange, Al, you understand?"

"I know, Brother."

Ed reached down to touch the pocket watch resting at his hip.

"So, if that ever comes, that day where we can't ignore the law, the one that will be paying is me."

Al inclined his head and shifted his bulk back into his own seat.

"And the one that will be stopping you is me," he said.

Ed's smile grew a little, and he ducked his head again. In two separate heads, an identical thought ran through the silence.

_Maybe that day will come. Maybe one of us will have to pay. But I won't let it be you, Brother._

_I won't let it be you. _


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thanks again everyone, for your continued support! Reading your reviews always makes me smile. A little shameless self-promotion: I've got a new story in the works, the first chapter should be up sometime this week. D.N Angel fans, keep an eye out!_

_I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters  
_

**Ambush**

He stalked the grounds, a quiet and careful shadow, staying low and sticking to the dark places. The nighttime was a constant companion of his, and so he could navigate it with relative ease. But he was still cautious, so very cautious; because he knew that what was hunting him was just as familiar with the dark, possibly an even older friend of it than he was.

Bright gold eyes, a pair of them that flashed in the dark like dull coins, scanned the surrounding area with hot resentment. On some baser level, he was supremely pissed about his sudden demotion on the food chain. It galled him, really, that he, who was so often the hunter, could suddenly find himself the hunted.

A sound to his left, a quick and quiet patter of feet, brought his head around. He tensed, adrenaline locked his muscles down tight, and he eased his body away from the sound of his pursuers. They'd found him quickly, much faster than he'd anticipated. Faster than they would have found him, if they hadn't had the help of someone who knew his every move. Betrayal was a hot and bitter blade in his gut. He'd never thought it would come to this, that he'd be fleeing from the same person he spent every day fighting to protect. Thoughts of vengeance danced gleefully inside his mind as he jumped from shadow to shadow, grinning images of just what equivalent exchange would detail in this particular instance.

Leather creaked as he found a convenient corner and crouched into it. His breath was light and quick, and several strands of hair had come loose from his heavy braid and were sticking to his somewhat sweaty cheeks. He reached up to push them back with cold metal fingers, taking a moment to curse the fact that such vibrant hair was hard to hide; it shone like a beacon in the dark.

He rubbed those same metal fingers together, and briefly debated whether or not alchemy would help him in this situation. He could transmute something; a cage to trap his chasers in, a giant rope to tie them all together, pillars of mud from the earth to stand in their way. But no; any use of alchemy would give away his position. While it was tempting, extremely tempting, this was a covert mission, and alchemy, in most situations, had about as much stealth as an air raid siren.

From his hiding place, he could see the parade grounds. Just beyond that, he knew, was a hill that led to the street outside the base. If he could make it, he could blend in with the pedestrians, or duck into a convenient building, and lose his hunters in the crowd. But the parade grounds were a long stretch of flat land, and even though the lights were dim at this time of night, they were still vaguely illuminated. He'd have to run, hard and fast, and hope that his pursuers were searching in another section of the base. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs in preparation for his mad dash, and lit out of his hiding place like a silent bolt of lightning.

Later, he would console himself with the fact that he _did_ get at least halfway across the grounds. But then the lights flipped on, hot and white beacons that flooded the area. Shoved so rudely out of his shadow cover and blinking against the sudden illumination, he froze, caught in the glare like a deer sighted on the edge of the forest.

"There he is!"

"Get him, get him!"

He let out a snarl of frustration, and forced his frozen body to move again. He made it another ten feet before something solid and all-around huge crashed into him. A heavy metal shoulder buried itself in his stomach, knocking his breath right out of his lungs. He went down hard, rapping his head against the ground in the process. A whole galaxy of stars exploded before his eyes, and if he'd had the breath, his pained curses would have turned the air blue.

The giant figure that had taken him down clambered to his knees. He took a moment to shake his head at him, winded and spread out across the dirt like black and golden grass.

And then he turned its metal body around, and sat on him, effectively pinning him in place.

"Hurry," he warned. "I won't be able to keep him down for long."

That voice. He knew it as well as his own, every nuance, and the sound of it incited such anger, because of the betrayal it now associated itself with.

A figure stalked out the shadows, and he tensed, crushing his chest against metal legs. Another something he knew, and this one didn't need any outside emotions to prompt rage.

"Is this really necessary?" the figure purred, his predator's smile gleaming in the lights. "It's for your own good, you know."

"Go to hell," he wheezed. He may have been caught, pressed and pinned and unable to move, but defiance was as natural to him as breathing. He just wasn't one to surrender, no matter how hopeless the situation.

He began to buck against the legs restraining him, bruising what felt like a few internal organs in the process. His movements escalated to wild and violent struggles when his widened eyes latched on to the object the shadow predator held in his hand.

"Please, Brother," the metal figure entreated as the shadow predator knelt next to his head. "We just want to help you."

He refused to be swayed by that gentle pleading, even if it was delivered in the voice of the person who mattered most. He still snarled, still struggled, when strong fingers, wrapped in white gloves, clamped down on his jaw, prying his mouth open. Something cold bumped against his lips, and then he was gagging, his hands clawing at the dirt, as he tried to reject the poison they were pouring down his throat. They called it a cure, an antidote, something that would serve to make him stronger.

Oh, how they lied.

When it was over, the metal figure shifted his body, warily climbing to his feet. He sighed as he caught the enraged blonde missile that popped up after him, with the ease of someone long accustomed to such a display.

"Thanks for your help, Colonel," Al said. He had to pitch his voice over Ed's furious ranting. His brother was all but foaming at the mouth as he swore vengeance against them all.

Mustang eased back, just to be safe, and smirked at the twisting teenager. He tapped the empty cup against his hip.

"No problem," he said. "Fullmetal definitely has a talent for livening up a dull workday."

Al grunted a little as he adjusted his grip. Ed was still ranting, still raving, and his suggestions were growing more colorful, and anatomically impossible, by the minute.

"Come on, Brother," he finally said, exasperation winning out over amusement. "Do you have to be so dramatic? After all, I only make you drink one glass of milk a week. Is it really necessary to make us chase you around the base?"

Ed's furious shouting never faltered. Al heaved another giant sigh.

"Apparently it is," Mustang said, his voice shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Yeah." Al inclined his head to the Colonel, and the Colonel's men, who were wide-eyed and out of breath at Mustang's back. "So I guess I'll see you guys next week."


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: The writing bug has bitten me, and so I've been spitting out pages this week at a rather alarming rate. I didn't think you guys would mind :) Thanks again to everyone that reviewed, or just stopped by to read. It really does mean quite a lot to me. You guys rock! Oh, and on the note of shameless self-promotion, the new multi-chapter fic I promised in the last update has its first chapter up (called "Freefall"). If you're a D.N. Angel fan, feel free to mosey over and take a look. _

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**Fighting Fair**

As much as Ed hated hospitals, he had to admit that he spent a significant chunk of his time frequenting them. The nurse who'd come to change out his bandages had informed him that they kept a bed ready for him, an empty room that they stocked with various medical supplies and extra food.

Ed was pretty sure that she'd been joking.

And as much as hospitals were becoming a constant in Ed's life, he noticed that they also carried another theme. Whenever he found himself propped up in a hospital bed, wrapped up like a mummy and bored out of his skull by the second hour, he also found himself dialing a familiar phone number. Whenever Ed was hurt, badly enough that he actually sought medical attention, odds were that his automail was also pretty banged up (or occasionally hanging from his shoulder by a few fragile wires). So he'd make the sheepish call, and the next day, Winry would kick in the door to his hospital room, the fires of hell already burning in her bright blue eyes. After a quick scan to ascertain that he wasn't actually resting on his deathbed, she'd hone in on her creations like a heat-seeking missile, and her shrieks of fury would often shake the foundations of the building.

Typically, Ed would respond to her rapid-fire insults, delivered at full volume, with a few shouts of his own. But this time, Ed let her rant without interruption, even though her rage was hot enough to frighten away even the ever-stalwart Armstrong. It was a rare thing for Ed to be able to look past his own emotions, which always sat so close to his surface. He was always the type to act first, and contemplate later. His own brother would testify to the fact that Ed often let his emotional impulsiveness dictate his decisions. But today, Ed let Winry's hot and furious words roll off of him. He all but shut his ears to the sound; he chose to see instead.

Even in the heat of his own anger, how could he have missed, all those times before, the tears that lined her eyes as she shouted, or the way her hands shook as she tended to his automail?

Ed was struck with the uncomfortable knowledge that for someone people referred to as a prodigy, he could be amazingly stupid sometimes. As blind as he'd been, it was amazing that he hadn't actually started bouncing off of walls. Al was going to be so smug when he realized that it was his advice that had forced Ed's eyes open a little.

They'd been traveling back from one of Mustang's stupid missions, a land dispute in the South. There'd been a girl there, a blonde girl with green eyes that bore a vague resemblance to a certain automail mechanic. She'd wrapped herself around Ed like tied shoe laces, and the fifteen-year old had had a hell of a time untangling the knots. Al had laughed until his metal sides shook at the blush that still stung his brother's face, even hours later on the train.

_"Why didn't you just tell her you were taken, Brother?" he suggested. "She might've left you alone if you told her you had a girlfriend."_

_ "Winry's not my girlfriend!" Ed shot back instantly, his flush deepening to a darker red. "We're just friends! How many times do I have to tell people that?!"_

Al's laughter had faded, and he'd tipped his metal head to the side.

_"I wasn't talking about Winry," he said slowly. "I meant you could have pretended."_

Ed had made a choked sort of squeaking sound. Whoops. And for someone with such a gentle nature, Al had locked on to Ed's discomfort with ruthless and almost deadly accuracy.

_"It's interesting, isn't it Brother, that I mention girlfriends, and the first person you think of is Winry."_

Ed was hailed as a child prodigy, someone with an outrageous amount of intelligence. But Al's semi-innocent observation had left Ed tripping over his own words.

_"Al…you…I didn't…I don't…Gah…"_

Al's snicker had echoed inside his armored head.

_"Relax, Brother. It's just something to think about."_

And Ed had rubbed a miserable hand over the back of his neck, because he _had_ been thinking about it, more than he wanted to, more than he would admit out loud. And for every moment he'd spent, thinking thoughts he couldn't seem to banish, he'd suffered a moment of intense guilt. Equivalent exchange at its finest.

_"Hey, Al." _

The hesitancy he'd had in his voice had brought Al's head around instantly. Ed so rarely let his guard down.

_"You said before that sometimes when you and I fought, we'd fight over who got Winry." He cleared his throat, miserably awkward. "I guess I was just wondering…who won?"_

Al had looked at him for a long time, and Ed knew that his brother was seeing past the words he spoke, to the actual question hiding underneath.

_"You did, Brother," he finally said. "When it came to that fight, you always won."_

_ "Really? Are you sure?"_

All the laughter had left Al's voice, but he'd still sounded so gentle, and warm.

_"Really. I think…I think I knew that that was a fight you'd win no matter what." It wasn't possible for metal to smile, but Ed could see it in Al's voice. "And I knew, deep down, that I wasn't fighting for the win itself. Just fighting for the sake of fighting."_

Ed had slumped in his seat. While he'd known that his brother's words were meant to comfort, they'd also intensified his guilt to a near impossible level.

_"I don't think that that particular fight is over yet, Al. When I get your body back, I think it'll keep going." He almost winced as he fixed his eyes on his brother's metal face. "After all, you can't really win like this. So the fight never reached a fair conclusion."_

_ "I don't think so, Brother. When I get my body back, you'll see."_

They'd lapsed into silence. And after a long while, Al had sighed and spoken one more sentence, almost as an afterthought.

_"Brother, she's been waiting for you since before we left Resimbool."_

And Ed had choked once again. And he'd sputtered. And then he'd began to wonder.

In all of his…thinking, he'd never really considered, never really let himself believe…that Winry might have done some thinking of her own.

And now here she was. And Ed could _see_ her, like he never had before. And while it elated him, it also hurt his heart a little.

He took a deep breath, and when Winry walked by, still ranting, Ed reached out and took one of her waving hands. Instantly, she froze, her words snapping off like a light switch. Ed so rarely reached out to anyone; he hoarded his personal space like a greedier man might hoard gold.

Ed was lousy with words, especially when it came to things like this. But people were always telling him that they could always tell what he was thinking, because his feelings reflected in his eyes. The idiot Colonel in particular remarked on it, said how much he hated it, because it meant that Ed was a terrible liar, and therefore doomed when it came to military politics. So Ed only said two words.

"Sorry, Winry."

And the rest he said silently. He could tell by the way Winry's breath hitched that she heard his unspoken words. But before she could speak, Ed tugged his hand away. He couldn't let her respond, not yet. He had things to do first, important things. One of the many, many reasons why Al needed to be restored was right before his eyes. Because Winry's response wouldn't be right, wouldn't be unbiased, until both boys were standing before her.

When it came to those he cared about, and especially his brother, Ed knew no other way to fight than fair.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Who's reviewers/readers completely kick ass? That would be mine. You guys are so amazing! Thanks for all the support!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**Revenge and Retribution**

The sound of Edward Elric's voice, raised to an ear-splitting volume and ringing with fury, was a familiar one within Eastern Headquarters. His wrathful ranting was so commonplace, in fact, that for many base personnel, it became like white noise, background music on the soundtrack of a typical work day. The only thing people stirred themselves to care about was the target of the Major's rage (they may have been able to block out the shouting, but only after making absolutely certain the boy wasn't going to come after any of them in a sawed-off, bad-tempered free for all).

As the screaming started, ears perked up just long enough to catch a clue as to who had been unfortunate enough to incite Edward's ire. And after a particularly loud shriek came echoing down the corridor-

"WHO THE _HELL _ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE COULD FIT INSIDE HIS OWN POCKET WATCH, YOU JERK?!"

-the identity of the Major's opponent became known. Only two people dared to call the Fullmetal Alchemist short to his face, and the boy's automail mechanic was still in Resimbool. That left only one suspect, and arguing with him was something the Major did on an almost daily basis. Attention was turned back to answering phones, fingers resumed picking at typewriter keys, and in some cases, earplugs were happily applied.

Inside the Colonel's office, the scene was a familiar one. Ed was on his feet, his face flushed with rage and his fisted hands flying, his mouth flapping as he shouted almost without pause. Mustang was tipped back in his beloved chair, his chin resting on his folded fingers and a smirk of great enjoyment curling his lips. One might assume it was a mask, a face he wore simply because he knew the smugness of it fueled Fullmetal's rage like gas on a forest fire. But it was no mask; the almost maniacal glee Mustang got out of revving the boy's engine was real. There was no end to the amusement that Ed's rage was capable of bringing.

Lately, the Colonel had taken to timing how long the boy could scream obscenities without breathing. The result was actually quite astonishing, and defied several known laws of the human body.

In the corner, Alphonse sat on a handy chair, awkwardly using giant fingers to flip magazine pages (magazines that Hawkeye had taken to spreading around the office). Every once and a while he would give an idle glance up, shake his head, and then return to reading about the appropriate ways to express anger in an office setting.

Just as Ed's ranting reached a pinnacle, and Mustang started thinking that he might actually need his ignition gloves this time around, there was a loud rap on the door. It opened before the Colonel could give permission, and Havoc stuck his head inside the room.

Ed, always ready and willing to spread his rage on whoever might be breathing the same air as him, spun on his heel and snarled; "What?!"

"Is there something you needed, Second Lieutenant?" Mustang's voice was certainly a great deal calmer than Ed's, but the laughter straining just under the surface of it ruined any shot he had at dignity.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sir," Havoc said. "But Lieutenant Hawkeye had to run an errand. Since she's not here, I thought I'd take it upon myself to remind you that those papers on your desk are due at noon."

"Yes. And?"

"Colonel, it's a quarter to."

Mustang glanced at the clock, and then down at the sizeable stack of forms sitting on his desk. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed his pen and began signing frantically, moving so fast that the friction bordered on sending the papers up in flames.

"Aren't you going to read any of those?" Ed demanded. "Do you even know what you're signing?"

Mustang never looked up. Images of deadlines, and ticking clocks, and Hawkeye with her favorite pistol pointed at his head danced before his mind's eye.

"Go away, Fullmetal," he ordered. "It was fun, but I don't have time to entertain your little emotional imbalance anymore."

Ed honed in on the word 'little' like an intercontinental cruise missile.

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE HAS TO BUY HIS SHOES FROM THE BABY SECTION?"

"Brother," Al sighed, and turned another page.

"Seriously, Boss," Havoc said, draping himself against the doorframe. "Why do you let the Colonel get you all riled up like that?" He brought a finger to his chin and tapped thoughtfully. "Unless the ladies from Accounting are on to something. I wonder if it's too late to get in on that bet."

Ed paused mid-rant.

"What?" he asked, turning his attention from the Colonel to his Second Lieutenant. "What bet?"

Havoc shrugged.

"Oh, just a little pool that's running in a different department," he said breezily. "It seems that some of the personnel on base think you and Mustang fight so often because you're really struggling to cover up some secret attraction." The very picture of innocence, Havoc reached for his cigarettes and began tapping them casually against his palm. "They're betting on how long it will take for the two of you to give it up and jump each other."

Every muscle in Mustang's body locked up tight, freezing his fingers mid-signature. For a long, long moment, the only sound inside the office was silence.

It was broken by Alphonse Elric falling out of his chair and hitting the ground with a huge, metallic crash.

Green eyes glinting wickedly, Havoc pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit it up where he stood. Satisfaction radiated from every pore as he took in the scene he'd helped create.

Both the Colonel and the older Elric were gaping at him, their eyes the size of dinner plates. Edward's jaw was all but scraping the carpet, while Mustang's was resting on his desk. They seemed incapable of speech, although there was a curious gurgling sound coming from Edward's throat. And they were both so still that they might've been statues (it certainly didn't seem like they were breathing). The only things active about them were the colors swarming their faces at an alarming rate. Havoc watched with interest as their skin flushed from red, to white, to green, almost in unison.

Al was still on the floor, apparently insensible and unmoving, save for the occasional twitch.

The door to the outer office opened, and Hawkeye came in, carrying the stack of papers she'd gone to pick up from the main desk. Her eyes narrowed with instinctive suspicion when she spotted Havoc standing in the Colonel's open doorway, smoking a cigarette and obviously getting great enjoyment from whatever he was watching.

Hawkeye beelined in his direction, and then tilted her head as she took in the scene stretched before her eyes.

"Havoc," she ventured, after a quiet moment of consideration. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. Well, nothing really. All I did was bring the Colonel up to speed on a little wager making its way around Headquarters."

Hawkeye, who was well aware of the betting pool taking place in the Accounting division, gave a little hum of understanding.

"I see. And why did you feel the need to inform him of this?"

Havoc's lips curled into a wicked little smile.

"I thought he'd be grateful. The bet does pertain to him, after all." Havoc took a deep drag, and the smoke tasted like victory on his tongue. "And besides, a girl might reconsider her decision to go to dinner with the Colonel if she thinks he's involved with his male subordinate."

From inside the office, two people gagged in unison.

"I see," Hawkeye said again.

She balanced her hand on top of the stack of papers and took another moment to survey the victims still caught in Havoc's trap. Movement was returning to them, albeit slowly. The Colonel looked like he was giving serious consideration to passing out. And Edward was obviously torn between blowing up and heaving his lunch all over the carpet.

"…Havoc."

"Yeah?"

"Don't you think you should start running before they regain the ability to move? You know they're going to come after you for this, right?"

"Oh, sure. But I think I've got a couple minutes yet."

* * *

Eventually, Havoc did run. But he couldn't escape Hawkeye's prediction.

Retribution, when it found him, found him fast.

The personnel that showed up for work the next morning were greeted by the sight of an unconscious man, secured to one of the pillars holding up the front door with crudely fashioned chains. His uniform jacket was badly signed, and around his neck hung a sign.

_My name is Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc._

_Don't my legs look great in this miniskirt? _

* * *

A/N: No offense to yaoi fans...this is just the way I interpret the Roy/Ed relationship. You're free to see it however you want...that's what makes having such complex, begging to be interpreted characters so much fun!_  
_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: It's a long one! I didn't mean for it to be, but once I started writing it, it kind of shot out of my fingers and on to the page. I love when that happens. By the way, because I am still playing around with my account_, _I set up a poll on my profile page, mostly because the poll button was one I hadn't pushed yet :) The question is; "What is your favorite Daily?". If you're so inclined, feel free to wander over and cast your vote. _

_Thanks again to my amazing reviewers/readers! You guys are the absolute bomb...much love to all of you! I appreciate everything you guys have given me, and especially all the cookies and cyber hugs I've recieved via review. _

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**Solidarity**

It was rare for Roy Mustang to be sent on assignments. He was a Colonel, after all, and he'd made sure to make as many higher up friends as he could early on. Though they knew it was still far-fetched at this point, the men in charge of handing out assignments saw both Roy's charisma and the secret determination that drove him, and thought twice about ordering around a man that just might make it Furher one day.

But not everyone was impressed by Roy's apparent obedience to the state. For every higher up that Roy impressed with his unwavering determination, there were two that found his ambitions threatening. More than one superior officer looked into Roy's face, and saw the absolute purpose in those unreadable eyes. They recognized, right away, that there was a fire inside the Flame Alchemist that had nothing to do with what he produced from his fingertips. This was no bright spark that led to a momentary flash of flame and power. No, what really burned inside the Colonel was a small, steady bonfire of ambition. Its burn was constant; not even water could suffocate its flames.

And since Roy wasn't the only goal-oriented soldier inside the military, that fire rattled the hell out of more than one commanding officer.

One man in particular, a General by the name of Yu, made batting down Roy's rising star a personal mission. The Colonel and his men were stubbornly silent on the subject, but it was whispered around the base that there was bad blood between the two that could be traced all the way back to the Ishbalan war. No one really knew for sure, but every time General Yu visited Eastern Headquarters, he did so with ready insults on his tongue, and a mission from the Furher clasped between his thick fingers.

Sometimes Roy was still capable of side-stepping the General's assignments. His team, in a show of loyalty that always brought a small and secret smile to Roy's face, would volunteer themselves in the Colonel's stead whenever they could. But the General had caught on to that technique fairly quickly, and had started delivering missions that only an alchemist could undertake. Everyone knew that the missions which fell to the alchemists were almost always dangerous by their very nature. And General Yu always went out of his way to hunt down the most grisly, appalling, unwanted jobs, and saddle them on Mustang's shoulders.

Mustang's men would never, _ever _forget the look on the Colonel's face after he had returned from tallying the population of a nearby Ishabalan settlement. Apparently, the General had made sure that survivors from the cities Roy was stationed in during the war were moved to that particular camp. The Colonel wandered around the office like a dead man for days afterward, and it took weeks for the shadows to leave his eyes.

And now the General was back, stomping around Headquarters like he owned the place, and reclining in the Colonel's office like a little Furher. He'd arrived the day before, all but radiating smug superiority as he handed Mustang his latest mission. Something involving the inspection of an underground chimera fighting ring; the Eastern aristocrat, having too much time and far too much money on their hands, apparently got a kick out of watching two half-animals rip each other to shreds. After reading the assignment summary once, Mustang had forbidden his men from accompanying him. Only Hawkeye went, and that was because she simply rolled right over Roy's refusals. She'd nodded right along with his orders, her expression solemn and silent, and then once he'd stopped speaking, she'd pulled her gun, cocked it gently, and said two words:

"I'm going."

Hawkeye respected the chain of command as much as anyone, and probably more than the average officer. But when it came to the Colonel, an order from the Furher himself couldn't stop her from protecting him.

And, being the smart man that he was, Roy had learned almost immediately to stop arguing the second that look filled her sherry eyes.

Neither of them would go into great detail on what they'd found when they showed up at the office the next morning. But the Colonel had fresh claw marks, raw and open, decorating the side of his neck, and the way he sank into his beloved chair suggested that his ribs were either broken or badly bruised.

And sure enough, about an hour into the work day, General Yu stopped by the Colonel's office once again. He always enjoyed handing Mustang his latest mission, but the real source of his sadistic glee came from the gloating period afterwards. Watching Roy treat him with utter civility and subservience while the truth of his hatred filled his eyes like poison gave the General an almost physical thrill. Especially today, when the Colonel was covered in wounds from his assignment the night before, and the whip of his tightly leashed temper was actually starting to show under his scrupulously polite words.

Roy's men couldn't actually flank him; that could be seen as a challenge to Yu's authority. But they all magically found things to do inside the Colonel's office whenever the General came to visit. So while Hawkeye may have been the only one actually standing at Mustang's side, they still managed to demonstrate their loyalty in more subtle ways.

Roy never doubted that his men were there, even though the bow he'd folded himself in to prevented him from actually seeing them. He caught the sound of Fuery studiously tapping away at some radio inside his office, he could hear Havoc and Breda murmuring to each other as they sorted through Mustang's files, and he could see the tips of Falman's shoes stroll past him as he carried a fresh stack of paperwork to the Colonel's desk. And even though it would never show on his impassive face, the gratitude was there, blooming in Roy's chest.

He kept his dark eyes politely fixed on the General's face, giving every outward appearance of listening intently to the man's rambles. In reality, he was concentrating on the rather remarkable pain in his side, and struggling not to let his discomfort show. His ribs were indeed broken, and the longer he stayed bent in this ridiculous bow, the more they ached. He gave a tiny twitch of discomfort, and the sudden gleam in the General's eyes tipped him off.

Bastard. He could see that Roy was hurt, and he was dragging his speech out on purpose, because he knew that Roy wouldn't rise until he was done.

"I'm glad to see that your mission was so successful, Mustang," he all but purred. "It comforts the Furher greatly to know that he has such a loyal lapdog protecting the East."

Mustang gritted his teeth for a moment, so hard he thought they might shatter. When he spoke, however, his voice was nothing less than smooth.

"It is always my pleasure to serve the Furher."

General Yu's smirk widened into a mean smile, and Roy felt his stomach sink automatically to his knees. Whatever that smile meant, it wasn't anything good.

"The Furher appreciates your dedication, Mustang," the General said. "And because he knows of your great loyalty and your willingness to help out whenever you can, I persuaded King Bradley to send along two missions this time." Yu snatched a folder from one of his cronies and gave it a meaningful tap. "I thought you'd appreciate the opportunity to further demonstrate your faithfulness to the state."

Roy's stomach slid past his knees, and dropped all the way to his toes. He eyed the folder in the General's hand with a trepidation that never showed on his face. Yu had known how badly his first mission would rough Mustang up, and it was obvious now that he was hoping a second mission (most likely ten times as dangerous as the first) might finish the job.

Still, Mustang gave the General a cool smile and inclined his head.

"Of course. Whatever the Furher needs."

At that moment, the door to Mustang's office swung open, startling the majority of the occupants. Ninety-nine percent of the people who were comfortable enough to simply stroll into the Colonel's office like that were already inside it. Which meant that there was really only one option as to who was entering the room.

"Boss," Havoc greeted, his voice blank with surprise. "When did you get back?"

Ed Elric, still rumpled and weary-faced from travel, shrugged.

"Just now," he said. "Al's taking our stuff back to the dormitories."

General Yu pivoted on the spot, leaving Mustang bowing at his back.

"You wouldn't be Edward Elric, would you?" he asked. "The Fullmetal Alchemist?"

The change in the General's voice was painfully apparent. He wasn't the first superior officer who was all for treating the famed Fullmetal Alchemist with kindness if it meant potentially luring the prodigy away from Roy and under his own wing.

"Yeah, that's me."

Across the room, Mustang took a moment to shut his eyes. Thus far, he'd managed to keep Ed away from General Yu. Mustang knew that the boy's really horrible political and diplomatic skills, not to mention his obvious hatred of Roy himself, would only provide the General with more weapons for the 'Take Out Flame' arsenal.

But he supposed that it couldn't be avoided forever. And he was really too tired, and too damn sore, to try and hustle Ed out of the room before he opened his big mouth. So he kept his eyes closed and waited for the inevitable.

"I've been wanting to meet you for some time now," General Yu continued to gush. "You've garnered quite the reputation, you know. The famous Fullmetal Alchemist, child prodigy and hero of the people. I'd love to treat you to dinner down in the Mess, and hear some of your stories."

_I bet you would,_ Roy thought to himself.

"Thanks," Ed said, and Roy's eyes popped open at the almost…civil intonation of the boy's voice. "But I caught some of what you were saying when I was standing outside."

And then Ed was moving, past the General, and Roy had to physically fight back his jaw from dropping as the boy stopped in front of him, snapping his back and shoulders into a straight and respectful line. Roy brought himself carefully, ever mindful of his aching ribs, out of his respectful bow.

"I know I just got back and all, but you know how antsy I get when I don't have anything to do," Ed said, and his voice was still polite enough to make Mustang blink. "And I heard the General say that he has another mission for you."

Roy's brain, always so quick, went completely blank and sluggish as he tried to comprehend what Ed was saying. Was Fullmetal volunteering to sacrifice some of his precious down time, time he dedicated to research, to take over a mission specifically designed for Mustang?

"So I guess I wouldn't mind taking it in your place," Ed continued. "I mean, if that's all right with you and all…," Ed's face twisted for a moment, and then he rolled his eyes in resignation. "…Sir."

If General Yu hadn't still been standing in the office, Mustang was fairly sure that he and his men would be on the floor, all but comatose from shock. Ed never called Mustang 'Sir', never bothered to show the Colonel any of the respect owed to a superior officer. If anything, Ed's contempt for the subservience of the chain of command was legendary. So why the sudden attention to decorum?

Mustang managed, just barely, to keep his wits about him enough to nod.

Ed turned back to the General, and snatched the assignment folder out of the man's hand before retreating back to Roy's side, flanking his left, much like Hawkeye was doing on his right.

"So, I guess I'll have to turn down your offer," Ed said. "Because, as you can see, I've got more important things to do for the Colonel."

Roy thanked whatever god was listening that he'd had enough years to harden his political mask, and so all General Yu saw was cool impassivity, instead of the bafflement and sheer wonder he was actually feeling.

General Yu left eventually, red-faced and sputtering over not only Ed's uncharacteristically smooth rebuttal, but also his failure to finish Mustang off with a second mission. And because Ed had refused to leave the Colonel's side, Roy was able to turn and voice some of what he couldn't say before.

He wanted to express his gratitude. He wanted to say how much it meant to him, really, that he would come through like this, and for him of all people.

But this was Ed, and that was not how they worked. So instead, he cocked an eyebrow and folded his arms.

"And what was that about?" he asked. "I think that was the first time I've seen even a scrap of manners on you."

Ed's face flushed and he instantly strode away from Mustang's side.

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it," he shot back. "I just happened to catch some of what that guy was saying from outside. He's a jerk. And then he went all paternal and tried to win me over."

"And here I thought that you'd leap at the chance to be out from under my command."

Ed gave a bad-tempered shrug.

"I'd rather work for you than him." Fullmetal made a frantic gargling sound as he realized what he'd said. "I mean, you're both idiots! But I guess you're less of an idiot than he is."

And with that, Mustang found himself without words once again. It wasn't poetry; indeed, Ed was probably incapable of long and flowery vows of devotion. But buried in those rough words was a declaration of loyalty, and the truth of it shone brighter because Ed gave it as himself, in his own way.

After having the boy in his life for so long, Mustang had grown to expect many things from Ed. Shouting matches that would leave his ears ringing for days afterwards. Badly written reports that contained more complaints than mission details. A devil-may-care sort of mischief that made the Colonel check around corners when the boy was on the base.

But never, not for a moment after having met him, had Mustang expected this.

He'd always believed, like most people, that Ed's first and only loyalty lay with his little brother.

Obviously annoyed with Mustang's silence, Ed huffed out a breath. Jerking his head, he tossed his bangs out of golden eyes that were bright with anger, and the smallest bit of embarrassment.

"You look like crap, by the way," he snapped. "Sit down or something before you fall over."

And then he was gone, stomping out of the office, a bad-tempered, blonde tornado. And Mustang smiled, really smiled, because the mission folder was still tucked under the boy's arm.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Hello, friends! It's been a while, hasn't it? Well, a while by my standards :) Another long one. This one got kind of ridiculous, at least compared to some of my other stories. But, oh, it was fun to write! Thanks again to all my wonderful reviewers/readers. You guys keep me going! And just in case anyone was wondering the results of the poll are as follows:_

_Second Place: A three-way tie between "Revenge and Retribution", "Growing Pains", and "What They'll Never Say"_

_First Place: "Safe"_

_It was awesome to see that, because my top two favorites are 1."Safe" and 2."Won't Let It Be You". Nice to know we're on the same wavelength! Thanks to everyone that voted!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**What Friends Are For**

_*Inspired by the popular belief that a friend will bail you out of jail, but a best friend will be sitting in the next cell over*_

Mustang should have known how much trouble he was in the second his office door flew open. Only one person was capable of bursting through it in that particular manner, shaking the frame with such violent enthusiasm.

"Yo, Roy!"

Hughes didn't visit Eastern Headquarters very often. His own duties kept him busy enough over in Central, and so Mustang's contact with his best friend was limited to the weekly, three-hour-long phone call, during which Hughes babbled and Mustang silently contemplated the vein throbbing in his temple.

Occasionally, Hughes was able to squeeze some personal time into his schedule. When he didn't choose to spend it at home, with his wife and daughter, he would hop on a train and head East, to check up on his best friend and future Furher hopeful.

Every time Hughes visited, something invariably went awry. Back when Mustang still worked in Central, they'd seen each other every day, and so they'd been able to control themselves to a certain degree. But somehow, the gaps in time that both men now had to sit through until they could see each other seemed to piss off the spirit of the college kids still living within them. When they finally got within ten feet of each other, after spending so much time apart, they regressed at a rather alarming rate.

Mustang still shuddered when he thought of Hughes' last visit to the base. He never had figured out how to get the scorch marks off the ceiling, and it had taken Hawkeye hours to convince Fuery to come out from under his dormitory bed.

So, really, the instant that door flew open, Mustang should have known just how much trouble he was in. He'd been half expecting this visit, because by now General Yu was back in Central, and flapping his giant mouth about Roy and his shady subordinates. And, sure enough, the first thing Hughes had done was take a slow and measured sweep of his best friend's injuries. Though his cheerful grin had never faltered, his green eyes had gone hot and hard behind his glasses as he observed the fading bruises and very slight hunch still in Mustang's stance.

Then, his glasses had flashed white, and his smile had stretched to manic proportions. And even though Roy had fought in numerous battles, and seen more horror in his life than he'd ever be able to forget, a small thrill of terror had still shot down his spine.

"You need to relax a little," Hughes had announced.

And before Roy's apprehensive refusal could leave his lips, Hughes was sticking his head out the office door he'd just kicked in, and calling out a cheerful invitation to all of Roy's subordinates.

"How do you gentlemen feel about taking a little R and R time tonight? Is that bar still down the street?"

Havoc and Breda's whoops of joy had echoed around the office, along with Falman's monotone agreement, and Fuery's hesitant acceptance.

"Hughes," Roy had warned. "I don't think that bar will serve us. Not after last time."

And Hughes had shot that smile over his shoulder, and Roy's stomach had plummeted once again.

"Sure they will," Hughes had said, and the smug expression on his face had been downright terrifying. "Have a little faith in my investigative skills, would ya?"

And that was how Roy found himself sitting in the corner booth of the bar down the street, squeezed next to a silent Hawkeye who was all but radiating disapproval, and being served drink after drink by waiters that still went white at the sight of Hughes.

Roy didn't overindulge as a rule. A glass of whiskey after work was fine, as it served to smooth out the anxieties of a stressful day, and could be consumed in the privacy of his own home. But going to a bar and getting sloshed in public was something Roy avoided, because he was aware that there were eyes on him all the time. But that inner college student, whose voice should have been getting smaller and smaller every day, leapt forward at the sight of his best friend and former roommate. Back in college, Hughes had been able to talk Roy into just about anything, and it distressed him greatly to see that that still hadn't changed.

So every time Hughes saw him empty his glass, he cheerfully called for another round, and an increasingly tipsy Roy was baffled by the fact that his protests started to sound weaker and weaker as the night went on.

Somewhere around the eighth drink, Roy's world faded into a swimming mass of color and sound. Around the tenth drink, it went completely black. He woke up the next morning, alone in his bed with no idea how he'd gotten there, and with only a vague outline of what had happened the night before.

He scented coffee, and followed it like a child being led by the pied piper. He found Hughes in the kitchen, already up and dressed, and looking obnoxiously chipper. Roy recalled, with a surge of sour envy and near maniacal hatred, that Hughes never suffered from hangovers. The man could drink himself stupid on the scotch that he favored, and then wake up at some ungodly hour, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

"Morning, Roy!" Hughes chirped.

Roy responded with a bad-tempered grunt.

"I just got off the phone with Gracia," Hughes continued, apparently unfazed by the black cloud hanging over Roy's head. "She said that Elysia had all of her little friends over for a tea party yesterday. Can you imagine? My daughter, already the perfect hostess at three years old! She's a prodigy Roy, I swear."

Roy did his best to block out the cheerful buzz of his best friend's voice. It was cutting through his head like a chainsaw.

"You're awfully quiet," Hughes observed, plopping down at the kitchen table next to Roy. "What are you thinking about?"

"Your demise," Roy said, in carefully enunciated whispers. "I'm going to send you back to your wife on a serving platter. Does she prefer well done, or extra crispy?"

"Aw, come on!" The slap on the back that Hughes delivered to Roy nearly sent the alchemist face first into his coffee cup. "You had fun last night, didn't you?"

"I don't know," Roy said, and his glare could have frozen a forest fire. "Things got a little fuzzy after the eighth drink you shoved into my hand."

"Can't remember?" The words were sympathetic, but the effect was ruined by the underlying snicker in Hughes' voice. "Don't worry, buddy. I brought my camera along."

Roy froze in the act of bringing his mug to his mouth.

"You have…pictures?"

"Sure do!"

Hughes slapped a glossy stack of photos onto the table. In Roy's horror, it didn't even occur to him to ask how his friend had gotten pictures from last night developed so fast. It would've been a moot question anyway. Hughes always had his sources.

"See, this was right after that eighth drink you mentioned."

"Why am I under the table?"

"You were upset about the fact that Black Hayate doesn't seem to like you, so decided to try and sell your more charming personality traits to the dog via a serious conversation."

Roy grunted. It was the most flattering self-portrait, but Hughes had definitely snapped worse.

"And this one," Hughes tapped the next photo in the stack.

"Havoc is bleeding. Why is Havoc bleeding?"

"Well, after downing several glasses of liquid courage, he finally worked up the swagger to flirt with one of the waitresses."

"So?"

"Ah…well, it turns out that the 'waitress' was actually a rather pretty man, who was just a bit sensitive about his effeminate appearance."

Roy snickered into his coffee. Hearing about Havoc's abysmal romantic overtures always brightened his mood. But Hughes wasn't done, not by a long shot, and neither were his photographs.

"And then there's this one," Hughes slid the picture under Roy's nose. "It might be my favorite."

Roy squinted at the photo, and dark eyes went wide.

"Hughes, what the hell is Fullmetal doing there?"

"About halfway through your ninth drink, you started lavishing very loud and sloppy gratitude on me for making you go out. You then decided that if you were going to relax, and the majority of your staff was going to join you, then ALL of your subordinates needed to participate. So you called Ed and told him you had a mission for him. He came down to the bar at your request. You told him his mission was 'to pull the alchemically crafted stick out of his ass for a night and unwind a little'."

"So why is he punching Breda instead of me?"

"Well, Ed refused, and started calling you an idiot, and a very drunk idiot at that, and then Breda told him that he was just jealous that your body could hold more liquor than Ed's tiny little frame."

Roy pressed his fingers against his eyes, hard, and briefly considered just poking them out.

"Is Breda still capable of performing basic human functions, such as walking and speaking? Or did Fullmetal beat those out of him?"

"Fuery had to help him home at the end of the night, and he had a couple of impressive bruises showing already. But he was pretty out of it, so you…ah, might want to advise a visit to the infirmary when you see him next."

"Duly noted."

Hughes shuffled through the stack.

"Anyway, Breda's little remark led to this next photo," he said.

Roy frowned at the snapshot of Ed, surrounded by at least five glasses of some unnamed liquid, and apparently in the middle of slamming the sixth.

"Please tell me that isn't-"

"Six glasses of the bar's best house ale," Hughes confirmed.

"Hughes, you let them serve alcohol to a _minor_?"

"I didn't _let_ them do anything," Hughes protested quickly. "Ed was determined to prove that he could drink 'an idiot like that bastard colonel' under the table. And once the bartender saw his watch, he wasn't going to argue. And besides, you were the one that kept egging him on."

"I did not."

"Sure did," Hughes corrected cheerfully. He shoved a different photograph in Roy's face, one that showed him sitting at the other end of the table, sporting a drink and a wobbly smirk, while Havoc, Falman, and a battered Breda leapt about behind him. "You kept trying to persuade Ed to give it up; told him that 'there's no way someone as puny and shrimp-like as you could ever defeat me in anything other than a game of limbo'. Your subordinates were in the background yelling, 'Chug, chug ,chug'."

"Oh, God. Why didn't someone stop me? Where was Hawkeye?" At the sound of his first lieutenant's name, Roy's already waxy face went white. "Hawkeye. Shit. Hughes, I didn't say anything…inappropriate, did I?"

"Well, that depends on how you define the word 'inappropriate'," Hughes said after a moment's contemplation. "_I _certainly don't think there's anything wrong with suggesting that Hawkeye 'ditch the drab military uniform and stock her closet with miniskirts'. She's a very beautiful woman, after all." Hughes gave his best friend's back another jovial slap. "You know, she'd make an excellent wif-"

Roy's snarl stopped the sentence mid-word, and Hughes hurriedly withdrew his arm.

"Anyway," Hughes said, after clearing his throat. "You might want to wait a while before calling her. You know, give her time to put her guns away, and all that."

If Roy's head hadn't already been aching, he would have smashed it against the table by now. There was always the chance the he'd knock himself unconscious, an option that was becoming more appealing by the minute.

"Is that all?" he asked wearily. "Or was there something else you wanted to show me?"

Hughes shuffled through his deck of photographs once again.

"Maybe just a couple more relevant ones," he said. "Like this one."

The picture Hughes held in front of his face was obviously an action shot, and so Roy had to squint to make out what was going on. There was a flailing golden blob towards the bottom of the picture, with a hazy shape pinning it down. And a little further away, a taller blob, colored blue and black, was in the process of falling towards the ground.

"Why is Breda sitting on Ed?" Roy peered harder. "And is Hawkeye kicking my feet out from under me?"

"After Ed finished his drinks, you two got into a pretty spirited argument, one that ended with Ed challenging you to an alchemic duel. After the staff expressed an understandable fear for their establishment, your subordinates decided that your actions should probably be aborted."

"I guess that's good, at least. Anything else?"

"Just one more."

Hughes pulled a photograph from the bottom of the pile and held it out to Roy. After setting down his coffee cup, Roy took it. He had to blink several times before his brain would process what it was seeing.

"Ed fell asleep on the floor while Breda was sitting on him," Hughes explained. "And Hawkeye decided that that marked an end to the evening's festivities. Havoc volunteered to take him back to the dormitories, but you sort of insisted on doing it yourself."

The picture showed Ed, barely awake and obviously out of it, leaning hard on Mustang. Roy noted with curious disbelief that his arm was wrapped around the kid's shoulders, which must have been a good thing, because by the looks of it, Fullmetal would have fallen over without the support. Hawkeye was on the boy's other side, and hardly in the frame at all. She had one hand pressed, in what appeared to be an absent gesture, against the boy's head, and there was a subtle softness in her face. Those who didn't know his first lieutenant wouldn't have seen that softness, but Roy had known Hawkeye for years now, and so he could read it.

They looked…comfortable. Cozy. Almost like a family. An obviously drunk, sort of sloppy family, but the underlying theme was there.

"You know, it's normal for a kid to get drunk for the first time with his father," Hughes said sweetly, interrupting Roy's internal monologue.

"Shut up, Hughes."

"What a witty comeback. Although, I can't help but notice that you aren't exactly arguing the point."

Years of being best friends with an alchemist had honed Hughes' reflexes, and so he was able to snatch the pictures out of Roy's hands and off the table before Roy could get his glove all the way on.

"I'll give you ten seconds," Roy purred, climbing to his feet. "Because I'm hung over."

Hughes, who was already out of his chair and halfway out the kitchen door, grinned.

"Aw, come on, Roy! If you want a copy that bad, I can get one for you. And oooh, maybe a nice silver frame for your desk! After all, isn't that where most proud daddies put pictures of their kids?"

Not for the first time, Roy was grateful for the fence surrounding his back yard. It would hurt his reputation quite a bit if anyone was to spot him chasing his best friend around the lawn, two grown men, one still in his pajamas, and one clutching a stack of photos protectively against his chest.

He'd never, ever admit it, but it was the most fun he'd had in a long time. Leave it to Hughes, to always know exactly what he needed.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: I'm battling a rather wicked virus at the moment, but I didn't want it to disrupt the update schedule too terribly much. So enjoy, and blame any incoherency on the medication! Thanks again to my amazing reviewers/readers. You guys have been absolutely great, and I offer up my gratitude on a silver platter. Much love to all of you!_

_I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist; this story is for entertainment purposes only.  
_

**Because He'd Never Ask**

Almost more than anything in the world, Edward Elric hated when his little brother was unhappy. Even worse, he hated when his little brother was unhappy, and there was no foreseeable way for him to fix it. He was the older sibling after all, and it was his job to make sure that his only remaining family member stayed as safe and un-sad as possible. But there was nothing he could do; he'd known that from the moment his feet had hit the floor that morning. There wasn't an ass to kick, or a favor to fulfill, or any amount of soft words that he could offer to make Al feel better today.

The phone call from Winry and Pinako back in Resimbool had cheered Al up a little. But it wasn't enough, not nearly. It shouldn't have been possible for such an impassive face to radiate such sadness, but somehow, Al pulled it off. And what was worse was that he was trying to _hide_ it, to shield his older brother from his heartbreak. It ripped Ed up inside.

He'd been dreading this day all week. They'd been searching for the Philosopher's Stone for three frustrating, fruitless years, and this day got steadily worse every time it rolled around and revealed their still-empty hands. During the week leading up to it, Al's giant shoulders rounded little by little, and by the time zero hour arrived, he was all but folded into himself. And still he offered reassurances, and smiles via his voice.

Very few things brought Edward so close to tears. But this circumstance did, every year, and he couldn't let his little brother see that either. Amazing person that he was, Al would probably blame himself for the frustration brimming wetly in his brother's eyes, and Ed wasn't sure the guilt hovering around his heart could take the extra weight.

To top it all off, Mustang had phoned their room around eleven, requesting Ed's presence in exactly one hour. Stupid, obnoxious idiot. He knew _everything_; he had to have some idea as to what today meant for the both of them. Couldn't he leave them to wallow in their own various miseries in peace? As if Ed needed another reason to hate the bastard.

"Do you think the Colonel is sending you on another mission, Brother?" Al asked as they made their way to Mustang's office.

Oh, how Ed _hated_ the false cheer in his brother's voice. Apologies choked him, crumbling in his mouth like ashes. He wanted to break under the weight of them, to scream them for the world to hear until his voice was reduced to whispers.

"I hope not, Al," Ed returned. "After all, we just got back from the North a week ago. I was looking forward to some down time, so I could get some research done."

"Research. Is that…all you were planning to do today, Brother?"

The question fell heavy Ed's shoulders, almost dragging him to the floor. Try as he might to sound blasé, Al couldn't mask the soft edge of vulnerability and hurt in his voice.

"No," he said. "As soon as we're done talking to Colonel Bastard, we'll go do something fun, okay Al?"

Al ducked his metal head.

"It's all right, Brother. We don't have to do anything. I mean…it's not like today has any _real_ significance."

Ed's fingers curled into tight fists and he squeezed his golden eyes shut. Desperately, he wished for an enemy, a target, something he could _solve_. When it came to tangible obstacles blocking the road to his brother's happiness, Ed had absolutely no problem ripping them apart. But this…this hopelessness. It was worse than any injury he'd ever sustained, and because he couldn't fight against it, infinitely more frustrating.

Al would never ask him to fight so hard. In fact, he'd be properly horrified if he knew just far his older brother was prepared to go to ensure his happiness. And that's exactly why Ed was so willing to walk the road to hell and back again for his brother's sake.

Because Al would never ask.

"Okay, let's get this over with." Ed mustered up a small snarl, because it was expected of him. "One crack about my height, and I'm transmuting the bastard into a pocket pistol."

"A pistol, Brother?"

"Well, at least Hawkeye will get some use out of him that way."

Al's laugh lacked its usual careless joy, but it still soothed some of the hurts Ed was harboring inside.

Ed took a moment to school his face into a small scowl, his default setting, before flinging open the door. Wallowing in his guilt was fine when he was on his own, but if the others saw it they might start asking questions, and Ed didn't want that for Al today. So he made sure that his entrance into the office was the typical bad-tempered stomp that he employed whenever Mustang ordered him into his presence.

For someone who so desperately sucked at deception, it really was an impressive bit of acting. Too bad that he ruined it by freezing like a winter lake after only three steps.

"Brother? Ed, what's wrong?"

Al followed Ed into the room, only to jerk to an exactly identical stop. The outer office was usually the very picture of military decorum, meaning that it was neat, clean, and lacked the personal touches of the people who spent so much time there. But today, it was covered in brightly colored streamers and balloons, and the officers with familiar faces were gathered under a giant banner bearing the most amazing slogan.

_Happy Birthday, Alphonse_

From the cloud of shock he was standing on, Ed heard his brother's voice hitch and then release on a gasping sort of sob.

"I…I…"

"I hope you didn't think we forgot, Alphonse," Hawkeye said, and her face was probably the softest Ed had ever seen it. For whatever reason, the sight of it brought him once again to that brink of almost-tears that he hardly ever walked. "In the past few years, you've always been away with Edward. But you're here now, and we thought we'd take advantage of the opportunity, and celebrate."

"But…it doesn't make sense to celebrate." Al's voice grew small. "I mean, it's not like…"

He trailed off, and Ed's shock was permeated by helpless rage once again. He took a step forward, prepared to protect his brother from the only adversaries he could actually see. But if they noticed his sudden defensive maneuver, they chose to ignore it.

"Aw, come on, Al," Breda said, slinging a friendly arm around Fuery's shoulders. "Everyone deserves a party on their birthday!"

"Yeah," Havoc agreed, smiling around the cigarette in his mouth. "Skipping the party won't make the getting older disappear, you know."

From where he hovered, half-leaning against the door frame to his office with his arms nonchalantly folded, Mustang smirked.

"We had to have the same conversation with the First Lieutenant last fall, when she snarled at the birthday cake we brought her." Mustang shook his head. "You'd think that such a battle hardened soldier wouldn't balk at something as trivial as turning thirty."

The sound of a gun being gently cocked filled the room.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I couldn't quite hear you. Would you care to repeat that?"

"Apparently not."

It was all so…_normal_. Beautifully, blissfully normal. A real birthday party for someone who had just spent the entire morning questioning just how real he could actually claim to be.

Gratitude fisted in Ed's throat, forming a lump as hard as his automail.

"Why don't you go and get your gifts, Alphonse?" Hawkeye suggested. "We stored them in the empty office down the hall."

If armor could have blushed, Al would have been fifty different shades of red by now.

"Gifts? For me?"

"Of course!" Breda proclaimed, leaping away from Fuery to give Al a companionable slap on the back. "What's a birthday party without presents?"

"Um…okay. Sure."

Ed watched his brother leave the room, obviously flustered, but also vibrating with the beginnings of joy.

'Thank you' wasn't a phrase that came easily, or often, to Edward's lips. Because of who he was, he was much more likely to offer someone sarcasm rather than gratitude. But there were some occasions when the words just couldn't be ignored.

But that didn't stop the phrase from feeling foreign on his tongue. So he ducked his head and hid his eyes before saying it.

"Thank you. Really." Ed's voice was soft, and painfully earnest in the suddenly quiet room. "Today is hard for Al. He stopped letting me, and Winry, and Granny celebrate it years ago." If anyone picked up on the soft break in Ed's voice, or the self-loathing coloring his words, they gracefully ignored it. "We don't know if…he's actually aging where he is, you see. And he said that it isn't right to have a party when he isn't really moving forward."

The silence in the room stretched on. When Hawkeye shattered it, she did so with firm words and a brisk tone of voice.

"Nonsense," she said. "Today is Alphonse's birthday. Therefore, we'll celebrate just like we would any other person's."

And there it was. That word, that title, the reason for the party streamers and the smiling faces. The thing Al needed to know he still was.

A person. Even after all the changes he'd gone through, still a person, in the end.

Alphonse returned with his gifts not long after. With every box he opened, Ed saw his brother relax just a little bit more into the normalcy of it. By the time Havoc got up on his desk to lead them all in a very loud, very off-key chorus of 'Happy Birthday', Al was standing straight again, and his laughter was uninhibited.

The weight on Ed's shoulders eased in direct correlation to the sudden upsurge in his brother's happiness, and the sudden lack of pressure left him reeling. He needed a quiet second to get his equilibrium back. So he ducked into the Colonel's office for a brief moment, and made his way to the window.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised when Mustang fell in at his side. The older man didn't speak, just folded his arms and leaned against the window frame, giving Ed his moment. The teenager took it, letting the late afternoon sun warm his face. Once his balance was restored, he spoke.

"He can't eat it," he said quietly, tapping the plate of cake in his hand, even though he knew such a point of discussion was unnecessary.

"No," Mustang agreed. "But he takes joy in watching you do the things he can't."

"So you got him a birthday cake, even though he can't really eat any."

Mustang's eyebrow rose as he turned to survey his subordinate.

"Is that a problem? I thought you were grateful."

Ed scowled, a faint flush rising to his cheeks at Mustang's mention of his vulnerable confession.

"Bastard," he spat, before softening. "I am. Today is hard for me too, because I can't make it what it should be, even though I'd give him anything he wanted if I could." Ed gave the pastry on his plate a poke. "But that's the way it should be. I'm his brother."

"And we're not," Mustang said, finishing Ed's unspoken thought. "So you're wondering why we would go to such trouble to make Alphonse happy."

Ed shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess."

For a while, Mustang didn't answer. He just leaned against the window and watched Ed contemplate the cake in his hand. Then he gave a shrug of his own.

"Because he'd never ask."

Ed's lips curved.

"No. He wouldn't."

And he took a bite. But the cake wasn't nearly as sweet as the sound of his brother's laughter, bouncing in loud and bright from the outer office.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: My heartfelt apologies for the lateness of this update! I had it done a few days ago, but I wanted to upload it at the same time as my new FMA fic. And while we're on the subject (shameless self-promotion FTW!) the first chapter of my new FMA multi-chapter fic, "Asylum", will be posted tonight. Please feel free to wander over and check it out! _

_Thanks so much to my amazing reveiwers/readers! Your constant support and feedback keeps me going. I adore all of you!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**Anger Management**

The soldiers of Eastern command were no strangers to rules. Simply by being military, they lived a life of obedience, an obedience that was enforced by an entire handbook of guidelines. Page after page of policies regulated them, on everything from clothing to conduct. But while the outside world saw the more disciplined side of the military lifestyle, they were not aware of the fact that there were several unwritten rules ingrained into the soldiers of Eastern command, rules that were necessary for survival on the base. These rules were kept under wraps, because the soldiers understood that anyone outside the military would find them completely confusing. For example, these rules included:

Under no circumstances should you touch Lieutenant Hawkeye's gun, unless you are eager to find out just how good she is at handling said weaponry.

Never bring up Major Armstrong's magical ability to shoot sparkles, or disintegrate his clothing, unless you have several hours of free time in which to hear the explanation.

Complaining to the Colonel about your stolen girlfriend will never end well for you. At best, you'll be dismissed with a smirk. Much more likely, you'll end up with second-degree burns.

And the single most important rule on base, the one every soldier knew to follow, because ignoring it meant serious risk to life and limb:

Never. EVER. Pick a fight with the Fullmetal Alchemist.

Every soldier that followed these rules escaped daily life on the base relatively unscathed. But because these rules were passed by mostly by word of mouth, sometimes a batch of new recruits landed themselves in hot water before they could be properly informed.

Which segued directly into the scene currently unfolding in the middle of the Mess.

The soldiers gathered abandoned their meals and watched in horrified fascination as a painfully fresh-faced and apparently idiotic recruit went against the first and most important rule. Looking to prove either his own badass reputation, or the size of a certain body part, the boy had taken one look at the silver chain attached to Edward's belt loop, and immediately started cracking jokes. The situation might have salvageable, had the recruit had the sense to at least utter his snide comments in a softer tone until he knew exactly who he was offending. But no; this idiot was as subtle as a brick to the face. His booming voice not only echoed inside the ominously silent Mess, but probably could be heard all the way in Central.

Under the cafeteria tables, covert hands passed money, while carefully hushed voices speculated on whether the recruit was really that stupid, or just insane. Major Elric was _infamous_; not just in the East, but throughout the entire country. Every corner of Amestris whispered about the Fullmetal Alchemist, the child prodigy that looked like a dwarf, but always fought for the people. He'd passed the alchemy exam at the age of twelve, and three years later, he still held the honor of being the youngest alchemist ever allowed into the military. And the kid wasn't famous just for his alchemy; it was a well known fact that outside if his younger brother, no one could beat Fullmetal in a hand-to-hand fight. How could that idiot recruit smirk at the pocket watch and the youthful face, and not put two and two together?

Much to the amazement of the assembled crowd, which was growing larger by the minute as word spread up and down the corridors, the recruit was still in one piece. Major Elric hadn't even left his seat yet. He was all but vibrating with rage, and the sound of gnashing teeth could be heard even over the idiot recruit's obnoxious voice, but he was still parked on the bench next to his brother, who was doing his best to soothe the wrath-driven blonde.

More money was passed as people placed their whispered bets on just how long the Major would last before giving in to his fury and beating the recruit to within an inch of his life. The proposed time increments weren't terribly long, considering the fact that the Major's eye was starting to twitch, and the idiot recruit was _still talking_.

"What're you even doing here, kid? I thought that no one under the age of eighteen was allowed on the base without adult supervision. Oh, I get it. It must be bring your baby to work day." A ridiculous sneer crossed the idiot's face. "Did your Daddy let you tag along with him today?"

A small, sympathetic groan for the increasingly stupid soldier rippled through the crowd. The Major's contempt for his father was well known around the base.

"Shouldn't we stop him?" one soldier whispered.

"Can you not see the vein pumping away in the Major's forehead?" another soldier hissed back incredulously. "This jackass has maybe thirty seconds left to live. I'd rather not be in the line of fire when he gets taken down."

"The Major hasn't attacked him yet," someone else pointed out. "Maybe if we can shut him up and get him out of here, we can stop this before-"

"How old are you anyway?" the idiot's voice rang out gleefully. "I mean, you've got the face of a teenager, but you're too tiny to be more than twelve!"

The word 'tiny' dropped into the crowd and detonated, sucking all the oxygen from the room in its wake. As a unit, the soldiers took careful steps back. There was no groan this time, because it was completely pointless to feel sorry for someone who was about to get his ass so thoroughly handed to him.

Major Elric jumped to his feet, the movement so violent that he almost upset the table. He was all but breathing fire as he shrieked;

"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE HAS TO USE A STEPPING STOOL TO REACH THE WATER FOUNTAIN, YOU _JERK?"_

Even the Major's younger brother scooted back a couple of inches, because he also knew a thing or two about inevitability.

The recruit's wide, stupid smile dimmed a bit as the Major launched himself at him, far too fast and with far too much skill to be just a kid. Edward's fist cocked back, and several soldiers winced as they caught the flash of metal beneath the black jacket.

But then the Major checked. He didn't stop his forward momentum, but his fist hesitated mid-swing. Something flickered underneath the rage in those golden eyes, something like uncertainty. There was an actual rumble of concern within the crowd; not for the stupid recruit, but for Edward's strange behavior.

But then that uncertainty vanished from those golden eyes, and the subsequent smile that stretched the Major's face had the soldiers skipping back several more cautionary steps. It was a near maniacal grin of glee, and the idiot recruit let out a high-pitched shriek of fear upon seeing it on what he had mistakenly classified as an innocent face.

There was a loud clapping sound, followed by a burst of white and blue white, and several gasps from the onlookers. Chaos reigned once the light cleared, as some soldiers stared, others doubled over in fits of laughter, and one triumphant voice echoed above the crowd.

"HA! Who's short now, you jackass!"

"Brother," Alphonse Elric sighed, shifting his gigantic frame off the bench and moving up the flank the Major. "Didn't you hear anything the Colonel said about anger management?"

Edward surveyed his handiwork with great satisfaction.

"Course I did, Al. The bastard told me that I couldn't beat people up anymore." He waved a hand in the direction of the floor. "And I didn't hit him, did I?"

"I think you missed the point of the lecture, Brother."

Ed shrugged.

"Whatever. C'mon Al, let's go to the training room. I'm suddenly in the mood for a spar."

The Elric brothers left the Mess in metaphoric shambles, with some soldiers gaping in horror, others weak-kneed and red-faced as they howled with laughter, and one very surprised face taking everything in from where it was wedged between the floor boards.

Later a report would cross Colonel Mustang's desk, letting him know that all of the secretaries that worked in the office directly below the Mess had spent a significant portion of their lunch hour in the infirmary. Even though all of the personnel that frequented Eastern Command had built up a strong tolerance to strange events, the sight of a headless body suddenly protruding from the ceiling could apparently send even the most prank-hardened employees straight into unconsciousness.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Hello friends! Several of you told me, in your wonderful reviews, that you really enjoyed the 'unwritten rules' from the last chapter. If you enjoyed that type of writing, please check out Sekehm's wonderful story 'Supplemental Rules and Regulations'. It's a truly funny take on the same sort of FMA concept. It's listed in my favorites, if anyone is interested!_

_Thank you, once again, to my amazing reviewers/readers. You guys are truly wonderful. I adore you all!  
_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters._

**The Words that Run Between**

It was extremely rare for Riza Hawkeye to see a hospital from the other side. As a soldier, and especially a soldier in the Colonel's accident-prone brigade, she frequented them more often than she'd have liked. But typically she was only visiting; stopping by to see Edward, bruised and beaten and swaddled in bandages once again, or to support the tragically uncoordinated Fuery and his lack of depth perception as he received yet another set of stitches.

Or to give Havoc a good scolding, reminding him _yet again _that if he continued to provoke superior officers with short tempers and quasi magical powers, then the collateral damage was his own damn fault.

But Hawkeye could count on one hand the number of times that it had been her tucked into the hospital bed. And of those four or five instances, only twice had she been admitted for actual injury. According to her track record, illness crippled her more than injury. She'd undergone a minor surgery a few years back, to have her appendix removed. And the year after that, she'd caught a terrible flu virus that had been galloping around Central, and fainted right in the middle of bringing the Colonel his stack of paperwork.

Years later, looking back on that moment of ridiculous female fluttering still made her cringe. But surprisingly, the boys had never used that moment of complete weakness as ammunition for their joke arsenal. She had a feeling that it had something to do with the absolute fear she'd seen on their faces when she'd finally come to.

Riza sighed, and turned her face to the open window. A cool breeze, the byproduct of early spring, danced around the open glass, gently stirring away the antibacterial and completely impersonal smell of the hospital room. She rubbed absent fingers against the white bandages packed into her side. Her face appeared calm, almost serene, but there was a secret desperation boiling just under her skin. While she was lying here, immobilized and unable to leave, her mission was wandering about unprotected. In this state, she couldn't even defend herself, let alone him. She felt naked, raw, uncomfortably stripped of all that defined who she was.

And he hadn't come to see her.

Fuery had come almost immediately, bearing a bag of fresh fruit and a rather adorable blush. Breda had come a few hours later, dragging Falman along with him. The two had brought a deck of cards, and talked the lieutenant into playing several hands of poker. Havoc had sauntered in the next day, and dropped an extremely racy romance novel onto her bed. With a broad wink, he had told her that it would 'help pass the time'.

It had taken Hawkeye all of five seconds to conclude that he was taking complete advantage of the absence of her gun.

Even the Elrics had stopped by. Hawkeye had blinked at their windswept appearance, and with the dawning realization that they had rushed back from a mission to see her came an odd sort of sentimental bemusement. She hadn't realized that she meant so much to them.

Alphonse had offered her a bag of sweets and gentle wishes for her good health. She'd smiled at him (she'd smiled at all of them), but the sight of the older Elric had brought the desperation knotting in her belly to an almost painful twist. She'd tried so hard to bury her feelings deep enough, to keep them unseen, but it had been _days_, and the weight of not knowing was starting to bend her in half. She had pride, had it spades, but like everything else, she would sacrifice for the one who mattered most.

"Edward," she'd said, quietly, because showing so much vulnerability all but choked her. "You will…look after him for me, won't you? While I'm away. Please, it's very important." She'd attempted a small smile, to try and redeem even a little of her equilibrium. "You know how abysmal he is at taking care of himself. He needs constant monitoring."

The boy's golden eyes had filled with awareness, with understanding. He'd inclined his head, a tiny nod of agreement that instantly soothed some of the knots in Hawkeye's stomach. And then a wicked smirk had stretched his face, and she'd felt great relief, because it meant that he was about to put them back on even ground.

"Sure, Lieutenant. We'd be happy to take care of Black Hayate for you, wouldn't we Al?"

And Hawkeye had laughed, her first real laugh in what felt like weeks.

That had been two days ago. She still had three days of enforced recovery time left, possibly five if the bleeding continued. It had only taken Hawkeye one to come to the grim realization that she'd probably go quietly insane before her sentence was up. Stress she could handle, ridiculous situations, brought about by both true danger and complete stupidity, had become a part of her daily life. But this, this complete lack of movement, of _doing_, left her floundering. The white walls surrounding her seemed to creep a few inches closer every day. Every time they changed her bandages, Hawkeye felt bits of herself leak out onto the sheets, along with the blood. She was naked before them, stripped of any purpose, and anything familiar to cling to.

She wanted to rage, to scream, to shout demands for her release. But she only sighed and continued to stare out the window. She'd spent so long proving that she was stronger than that. She wouldn't screw it up now.

He hadn't come to see her.

But had she really expected him to?

The door opened. Hawkeye turned, a small smile of reassurance ready on her face for whatever doctor, or member of her squad, might be visiting now. It faltered, just a little, when she saw just who was shadowing the threshold.

He was here. He was here, and he was all right, and suddenly it was so much easier to breathe.

"Sir," she said, snapping her shoulders as straight as she could manage.

Roy Mustang's face was cool, almost impassive, as he stepped inside the room. But Hawkeye had learned long ago to read the soft and subtle layer of actual feeling that rested just below the mask he always wore. He loped into her room with easy grace, his small smile and hands tucked neatly into his pockets signifying almost indifference. But the tension in his arms suggested that those hands were out of sight because they were fisted, and the careless smile was somewhat ruined by the anger in those eyes.

Oh, yes. Maybe only Hawkeye could see it, but the Colonel was well and truly pissed. And she knew, without a doubt, that she was the cause of his silent fury.

"First Lieutenant," Mustang said easily. "You're looking extremely well for someone who took a bullet to the side only a few days ago."

And Hawkeye bit her cheek to hide her smile, because that wasn't what he was really saying at all. They often had conversations like this, where the words became meaningless, and the things said in between held the real substance. His actual words might have implied relief that she was recovering, but she translated his real message with ease.

_Idiot. If you weren't already injured, I'd flame you myself._

"It's only a flesh wound, Sir." Hawkeye reminded him. "It hardly did anything more than scrape off some skin."

_Get over it, you big baby. It barely grazed me._

Roy's eyes flashed dangerously.

"Regardless," he almost purred. "Your actions were admirable. Admirable enough that I believe you'll be getting another bar on your uniform once you're released."

_Damn it, I never asked you to push me out of the way. You knew that bullet was meant for me. I should be the one in the hospital bed._

Hawkeye met the Colonel's anger with cool amusement. The look she used to return his glare was level, and almost bland.

"I'm honored."

_You didn't need to ask. I told you a long time ago that I'd always protect you. That includes nudging you out of the way of enemy fire, you moron. _

The Colonel's arms tensed even tighter, and Hawkeye spared a brief glance for the pockets that hid his hands. Without seeing, she knew that some sort of helpless anger had tightened his fists.

"Your continued dedication as a soldier is something I greatly appreciate," he said.

_I don't want anyone to get hurt because of me. Not ever again. _

Hawkeye's smile softened, became one of gentle understanding.

"Thank you, sir. You continue to make it worthwhile."

_You've known from the beginning that to reach your goal, you'd have to step on some backs. But you're not really hurting me if I laid down and offered mine, are you? _

Mustang ducked his head. To others, it might have looked like some sort of shrug, a byproduct of his studied indifference.

"It seems that I spend a good chunk of my time here," he said, with an easy humor that was completely false. "I have no idea how I ended up with such injury prone subordinates."

_It's different. When Havoc gets hurt, or Fuery, they do it out of loyalty. With you, there's more. There's always been more._

"You picked us, Sir," Hawkeye reminded him gently, "because of our willingness to give loyalty more weight than risk."

_I know that there's more. But I promised anyway, didn't I? To push you to the top. My personal feelings don't affect that goal, and neither should yours._

Roy nodded, just a little.

"I suppose that's true."

_I know. You're right. But that doesn't make it any easier, to see you here._

Hawkeye didn't speak this time, but let her smile contribute to the silent conversation instead.

_Promises always have a price. Especially promises as heavy as yours._

Roy let out a quiet breath, and then raised his head again.

"Your fellow soldiers in my command have been giving me constant updates as to your recovery," he said, and Hawkeye's smile widened. It was an apology.

_I'm sorry I didn't come to see you sooner. You know that I…I can't let anyone realize how much you actually mean to me. I won't let them hurt you just because I care._

"I hope they weren't too obnoxious about it," she said.

_Stop worrying. I understand. I've always understood._

_ Promises always have a price._

"Not at all." Roy's mouth crooked, with real humor this time. "Except for Fullmetal, of course. He's always obnoxious."

_He's been tailing me like a puppy for the past week. You told him to watch me, didn't you?_

"You really shouldn't be so hard on him, Sir."

_Of course. As if I could ever trust you to take care of yourself. The whole reason I'm here is because you couldn't move your own ass out of the line of fire, remember?_

"Perhaps if he wasn't such a reckless brat, I wouldn't have to be," Roy said, his voice as dry as dust.

_Thanks for the vote of confidence. I'll tolerate it, but if he keeps camping out in my office, he's going to end up in the bed next to yours before the week is out._

Hawkeye smothered a chuckle.

"I'll be out soon, Sir," she said. "And then you won't have to deal with him on your own."

_If you flame him, Alphonse will very politely break your spine._

Roy rolled his eyes.

"Wonderful."

The response needed no translation, because the text and the subtext had the same meaning. For a moment, Mustang just looked at her, so alone and all but swallowed up by the cradle of white blankets. Hawkeye watched as intentions passed over his face, on that subtle underlayer. With his eyes, he let her know exactly what he would be doing if he could. He wanted to touch her hair, to hold her hands, to press gentle fingers against her side.

Instead, he took a deep, steadying breath.

"I'm glad you're doing well, Lieutenant," he said, and his voice was impersonal again. "I have to head back to the office. But I'll be sure to tell all of the others about your progress."

The disappointment was instinctive, and it was ridiculous. Impatiently, Hawkeye brushed it aside.

"I'd appreciate it," she said, with a smile that was just as distant as his. "Tell them that I'll be back in a few days, and that the piles of paperwork that have no doubt been building up in my absence had better be taken care of."

She arched her brow, just a little.

_That means you, Roy. Don't make me shoot you on my first day back._

Roy cleared his throat hastily, his face the picture of false innocence.

"Understood," he said.

The Colonel took two steps towards the door, and then checked himself, as if suddenly remembering something. He turned around, and strolled back, coming right up to the edge of Hawkeye's bed this time.

"Sir," she said warningly, while twin jackhammers of alarm and exhilaration pounded away in her chest.

"The bullet you took was a small part of a bigger whole," he said grimly. "I feel uneasy about leaving my subordinates unarmed with such a dangerous threat still at large."

_I can't be here. So hold on to this instead._

There was a sudden weight on the blankets, and the shine of something silver.

"Take care, Lieutenant."

_Come back soon. Please. I need you._

And then he was gone, and the majority of the oxygen seemed to leave the room in his wake.

Hawkeye spent the next three days recovering. The Colonel didn't come to see her again. But this time, when any of her fellow officers came to visit, she was able to make her smiles genuine. Fuery had brought her fruit. Breda and Falman had brought her cards, and a few hours of much needed distraction. Havoc had delivered a raunchy book, a joke that covered his very real concern. The Elric brothers had brought her sweets, and a promise to look after her job while she couldn't.

But only Roy had known her well enough to understand that to truly help her settle, she needed a tangible reminder of her mission, of herself.

Hawkeye kept her gun hidden under the sheets while she visited with her friends. She was pretty sure that they all knew it was there anyway, but nobody took it away.

Perhaps they all understood her better than she'd thought. They knew that she couldn't have Roy to hold, and to draw comfort from. But she could have the next best thing.

_Promises always have a price._


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: I live! And I snickered my way through writing this, so I hope you all enjoy! Thanks, as ever, to my amazing reviewers/readers. You guys completely rock, and I adore you all! Watch for an 'Asylum' update in the next few days!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**The Dance**

"So. Got any ideas, Colonel Bastard?"

They were crouched behind a barricade of old tin dumpsters. The empty warehouse echoed with the sound of gunshots, and the metal surrounding them shook dangerously as the bullets hit their target. Shoulder to shoulder with his subordinate, Mustang didn't even try to stop his smirk from spreading.

"You're the prodigy," he pointed out, pitching his voice just a little over the sound of a window shattering.

On his immediate left, Edward Elric let out an undignified snort and shot him a glare that was both exhilarated and amused.

"So you're planning on kicking back and letting me do all the work," he said. "Somehow, I'm not surprised. You know, I hate it when you decide to tag along. Things only go bad when I have to worry about watching your ass."

"This from the boy who barely escaped being burned at the stake during his last mission," Mustang commented dryly.

"Hey. That was a misunderstanding. I didn't know it was a sacred object until after I transmuted it."

Their voices were easy, almost casual, despite the bullets that continued to shake their makeshift shelter. This was a warm-up. A prelude. Something to get the muscles ready.

"The Furher requires that every higher ranking officer accompany his subordinates on a minimum of one mission every three months," Mustang reminded the boy. "It's not as if you have to tolerate my presence every time you step out the door."

"Yeah. Don't think I'm not grateful for that." Ed craned his neck just a little, bending it around the dumpster to take a quick peek. He pulled it back instantly as a fresh shower of bullets popped against the metal. "Are they ever going to run out of ammo?"

"Eventually," Mustang said breezily. "They saw the chains of our pocket watches when we came in. They don't want to get too close, and risk us beating them with alchemy."

Mustang didn't mind the bullets. Really, it was like an overture, the orchestra playing before the actual show. But the main event was a performance that only he and Ed could really give, and so the prelude couldn't last forever. The dumpsters surrounding them stopped rattling rather abruptly, and the only sound in the sudden silence was frustrated cursing. Instantly, Mustang's muscles went tight with the anticipation of someone standing in the wings, and waiting for their cue.

"Ready?" Ed asked, and Mustang heard his own exhilarated eagerness reflected in the boy's voice.

"Of course. But be cautious. They may have stopped shooting in an attempt to draw us out of hiding."

Ed's grin was all teeth, and his golden eyes were blazing.

"Cautious," he repeated, with an almost giddy snort of laughter. "Right."

And then he was surging out from behind the dumpsters, a dizzying blur of black and gold, and Mustang was echoing his movements exactly. It seemed that the drug-dealing thugs they were dealing with were a little smarter than they looked; they had indeed been preserving ammo in order to draw the two alchemists out of their make-shift barricade.

"Down," Mustang snapped.

He and Ed hit the dirt in perfect unison. Bullets whizzed harmlessly over their heads.

"Well, well. I guess even you have to be right sometimes."

"I can't imagine why I was worried. It's not as if you actually have to duck for the bullets to miss you. Okay, up."

The two rolled and regained their feet.

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE COULD WALK UNDER THE LIMBO STICK, YOU JERK?" Ed shrieked over his shoulder, even as they zigzagged away from each other in almost identical lines to avoid the next round of ammo.

"No need to be ashamed, Fullmetal. Genetics can't be helped. Although your brother stands at…what? Seven feet?"

"My brother is a SUIT OF ARMOR, YOU JACKASS!"

"It's not that he _looms_ over you, per se. Just that sometimes you magically disappear into his shadow when you stand side by side."

Ed's incoherent screech of fury bounced off the warehouse walls. The thugs were so confused by their easily tossed insults, thrown from opposite sides of the building as they ran to avoid the gunfire, that they're fingers fumbled on the triggers. It wasn't a long pause, but it was long enough for Ed to reach the group and clap his hands. There was a bright flash of light, and the two thugs blinked down at the handcuffs suddenly encasing their wrists, handcuffs fashioned from the same metal as their guns.

"I may not be tall, but at least I have to shave my face every morning!" Ed shot back, picking up the tempo again without missing a beat.

"That's all right. Why would I bother hiding a face like mine behind facial hair?"

"You are a slut. A filthy, dirty _man slut_."

Roy appeared at Ed's side. Two separate fists rammed into the suddenly bound thugs' faces in perfect unison.

"Easy, Fullmetal. No need to rearrange his face."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Could you explain to me the polite way to knock someone unconscious? On your left."

Roy gave a small snap, nothing extravagant. The man who'd been creeping up behind him yelped as he suddenly found his feet on fire.

"You wouldn't know polite if it bit you on your tiny, irritable ass."

"Right. This from the _master_ of all things subtle and refined. How many times did Hawkeye shoot you for suggesting that she stock her closet with mini-skirts?"

"For God's sake. That was one time. One. I was drunk. And she wasn't _really _aiming for me anyway. On three?"

"Sure."

After a quick and silent count, Ed and Roy jumped into the middle of the remaining men. Startled shouts split the air. Flashes of fire and alchemic power illuminated the room. Fists flew.

Insults flew faster.

"Watch where you point that thing, Bastard! You're aiming for the bad guys, not me!"

"Pfft. Who says I'm not aiming for you? And maybe if you stopped spinning around like some sort of crazed woodland elf two-stepping through the trees, you wouldn't end up in my line of fire."

"Well, maybe if _you_ got off your lazy ass for once and actually trained, you wouldn't shoot sparks like a defective firework. Switch!"

Roy stepped back instantly, neatly dodging the fist heading for his face. Ed spun under his arm. Roy pivoted on the spot. Roy's attacker suddenly found his fist stopped by an automail hand. And Ed's old opponents got a face full of fire.

"Wow. Are these guys _still _using guns? Alright, screw it."

"Hey. Hey! Your blade!"

"…The hell? I can't use my automail blade?"

"No, you idiot! The bullets are ricocheting off the metal!"

"Oh. Oops. Duck."

Mustang bent his knees a little, pitching himself down and forward. Above him, Ed spun in a pretty circle. His blade sliced off the tip of every gun still surrounding them, rendering them useless.

"There. Fixed it."

"You know, it's impressive how far down I have to stoop in order to become shorter than you."

"…You told Hawkeye to s_tock her closet with miniskirts_."

Snaps and claps and fists flew faster. The tempo increased, building to a barbed finale.

"Oh, for the love of _god_, you're not even beating the dead horse anymore, you're jumping up and down on its mutilated carcass-"

"-Always about the height with you, you bastard. One more short joke, and my automail foot is going to jump up and down on your _face_-"

"-Make one inappropriate comment, once, and you never hear the end of it. You could have just let it go, but _no_-"

"-Not my fault that you just _throw_ your fetish out there for the _entire freaking world_ to see-"

"-Really just a jealous reaction to the fact that you haven't matured enough yet to appreciate the female body-"

"-What. The. _Hell_. Is this supposed to be your version of The Talk? Because I swear I will _hurt you_-"

"-And every young man reaches a point in his life where he can fully appreciate the merits of a well-made mini-skirt-"

"-Oh, _God._ My ears. My ears will _bleed_-"

"-Not that I'd expect a maniacal midget with explosive tendencies to have reached that level of maturity-"

"-I will _end_ you. You will perish horribly, and by my hand-"

"-So dramatic, really, you think you'd be used to it by now-"

"-Leave your body in the courtyard of Central Headquarters, with nothing to cover it except a mini-skirt-"

"-But I guess you are just incapable of _being the bigger person_."

"-More than you deserve, you squinty-eyed, lecherous _bastard_!"

They stopped. Mostly because they were out of breath, but also because they were out of faces to hit. The silence that sometimes comes after a particularly good show settled around them as they surveyed the ring of bleeding, bruised, half-baked bodies lying around them.

"Okay," Fullmetal said eventually, nudging one of the unfortunate thugs with the tip of his boot. "I think we're done. We should probably call the local law enforcement to come and clean them up."

He turned to Mustang, and grinned. His face was tired, but also tiger bright. It was the look of someone who had just finished a difficult, but ultimately enjoyable performance.

"Good job," and there was no longer any hostility in his voice. "For a lazy, worthless, bastard."

Later that week, after the report was delivered, debated over, and signed, Roy found his invitation to the biannual Military Ball resting on his desk. He looked at it for a moment, dark eyes filled with some secret amusement. After a few minutes, he smiled. But his smile wasn't brought about by thoughts of stiff uniforms and fluttering dances filled with flattery and double meanings.

He thought of two bodies spinning around each other in a circle of violence, the steps they executed determined by the words they hurled. He thought of the intricacies of separating his mind from his movements; of keeping up a steady stream of razor sharp insults while at the same time being ever ready to step in and physically follow orders. It was a thrilling challenge, to be enemies in their words, but to remain allies in their movements. To always support each other physically, but to loathe each other verbally. It was foolish, but it was _fun,_ and somehow blinding in its simplistic and childlike purity. So unlike the dances he executed at military functions, which were smooth, and subtle, and always smeared with some underlying motive.

In the end, the dance the brought a smile to Roy Mustang's face had nothing to do with romance or his beloved social ladder at all.

...

_A/N: This is me again, taking a moment to apologize for all the wonderful reviews I have yet to respond to. As you might have guessed, life has been a bit crazy for the past couple of weeks. But now that thing that was stirring up craziness has departed, leaving me with much more free time in which to answer them. Please know that I do read every review, and that I hoard every single one like crack-covered chocolate. You guys are amazing, and you truly humble me with your praise. Much love!_


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Has it been almost a month already? Yikes...where does the time go? Well, to make up for it, watch for 'Asylum' and 'Remember When' updates in the next few days. Thanks again to my absolutely amazing reviewers/readers. You guys kick so much ass!_

_This one-shot could technically be considered a continuation of the last one._

_I do now own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters. This story is purely for entertainment purposes.  
_

**Blood and Immortality**

A normal person might have been frightened by the noises floating past the Colonel's open office door. The sharp sound of bullets, of brawling, and of high, excited voices, all coming from one area, suggested that there was nothing short of a one-room war going on in there.

It was extremely indicative of the typical atmosphere of the Colonel's command that not one of his subordinates found this fact alarming, or even unusual. Nor would they have been surprised to discover that such a large amount of sound was coming from a single person of such tiny stature (although they might have ducked for cover if the word 'tiny' was ever uttered out loud).

Inside the Colonel's office, Edward Elric was doing everything but a shuffle hop to truthfully reenact the mission he'd just returned from. It was ironic that Ed willfully sucked at any sort of subterfuge, but would eagerly participate in a little improv acting in order to keep his baby brother up to date on his solo missions. Al was dutifully entertained as Ed ran around the room like a maniac, attempting to enact every role at once. Even Mustang, who wasn't _really_ watching, because _of course_ he had better things to do, couldn't hide his amused smirk as he observed from underneath his eyelashes.

"So we walk into this warehouse, right? And for a second they don't know who we are, and they're acting all confused. Then this big guy spots the silver chains swinging from our pockets, and suddenly everything's going to hell in a hand basket, and I'm dragging this idiot's oblivious ass behind a dumpster before these thugs blow another hole in it."

Ed dramatized their dumpster dive by spinning in some sort of graceful circle on the carpet, a circle that Mustang might have likened to a pirouette, if he didn't think Ed would punch him for the analogy.

"That's a bit far-fetched, isn't it?" he said, giving his nose an idle scratch.

"What?" Ed asked, pausing in his not-pirouette to face his superior.

"That lie that you just told." Mustang signed a document, the very picture of breezy nonchalance. "If I remember correctly, you shouted something along the lines of 'In the fight between bullets and human flesh, I SHALL PREVAIL!', and I was forced to drag you away by that ridiculous coat you wear before they could prove you wrong."

Ed reached out a heavy boot and gave Mustang's desk a single, bad-tempered kick.

"Whatever. Don't interrupt my story, Bastard."

"Hmmm. My apologies."

Ed maintained his fierce scowl for another fifteen seconds, supposedly to intimidate the Colonel into submission (Mustang had to physically fight back a snort of laughter), and then it disappeared as the blonde dove back into his storytelling with enthusiastic aplomb. He used the couch in the Colonel's office to simulate the dumpster the pair had used as an impromptu hiding place-

"What an interesting memory you have, Fullmetal. I certainly don't recall cowering at your back and begging you to protect me."

-rolled across the carpet to reenact dodging the first fresh wave of bullets-

"Oh, please, as if your attention span is large enough for that to have been _your_ plan."

-and executed a rather impressive display of martial arts to illustrate just how he and Mustang had wrapped the bad guys up.

"What an entertaining story, Fullmetal. How unfortunate that I can't put it in the report, but then, the Furher does prefer reading actual information."

By the end of Ed's routine, Al was torn between very real concern for his brother's safety, and wanting to laugh at Mustang's continued commentary. He compromised, and allowed himself one carefully concealed snicker, before he turned to his brother, who had flopped triumphantly on the couch immediately following the completion of his performance.

"Brother," he said, letting the laughter fade and the worry creep in. "Don't you think you acted a little recklessly? You said that they had guns."

Ed gave a negligent stretch.

"Nah. The Bastard and I had it handled." The blonde bared his teeth at the older man. "Even if I did spend most of my time making sure his pasty ass didn't get blown away."

Mustang rolled his eyes without ever looking away from his paperwork.

"But Brother, what if they-"

Ed gave an impatient wiggle against the couch cushions, and bounced to his feet.

"Come on, Al!" he cried, giving his brother a playful sock on his metal arm. "This is me we're talking about, remember? It was a total snap!"

Al brought his armored hand to where Ed's knuckles had touched him.

"I guess you're right, Brother," he said, and the concern had all but vanished from his voice. "It is you. I know you'll always win."

Ed grinned.

"Right," he agreed. He gave another restless bounce, and then made a sudden dash for the office door.

"Brother?" Al called after him, confused by Ed's sudden shift in direction.

"Gotta pee!" Ed shot over his shoulder, grinning cheerfully as Mustang's subordinates in the outer office rolled their eyes at his announcement.

Ed bounced all the way to the bathroom. He continued to smile, at the personnel he passed in the hall (they eyed him with great suspicion and all but pressed against the walls to avoid his presence), at the secretaries seated at the main desk (the veteran secretary gave him a weary glance, the brand new one turned as red as a sun baked rock and giggled into her sleeve), and at the man exiting the bathroom before him (the man swallowed hard as he realized just who was grinning at him, and held the door politely). Ed smiled, continued to smile, until the door was locked at his back.

And then he proceeded to fall apart.

All the energy he'd used on bouncing, and smiling, and giving Al an impassioned performance, suddenly shifted, turned into the reaction he'd been fighting for hours now. His hands, flesh and automail alike, wrapped themselves around his upper arms, his back hunched, forcing his forehead towards his knees, and his body began to quiver. Hard, desperate, adrenaline-soaked shakes that he was helpless to stop now that they were loose.

There was a bullet hole in the back of his coat.

He'd fixed it, of course, as soon as he'd noticed. It would have caused Al nothing but panic and pain to see it. But fixing the fabric didn't change the fact that some nameless thug had come dangerously close to taking Ed away from Al. For good, this time.

He'd known, of course he'd known, that along with the perks of joining the military came some potentially deadly drawbacks. If the Furher decided to yank his leash, he had no choice but to play the obedient puppy, and follow. That didn't stop the hot fingers of panic from clawing at his throat. It didn't change the fact that one bad mission, one simple misstep, could be the thing to finally force the brothers apart.

At the thought of Al, alone and lost and forever stuck inside an armored body, the shivers coursing through Ed's body became violent, all but ripping him apart. Unable to stand against them, he sank slowly to the floor, bracing his back against the door and resting his forehead on his knees.

Ed gritted his teeth, and struggled not to heave all over his boots. Hot waves of sick lingered at the back of his throat. His body was still quivering, quick and vicious shudders. He _hated_ this. He hated the fact that this reaction was completely beyond his control, and that it was becoming more and more common with every mission he went on. He ground his forehead against his knees, and fought to breathe, to calm, to keep himself from breaking apart.

He couldn't. He couldn't leave Al alone. He was his brother's only hope, and so dying was simply not an option.

_It is you. I know you'll always win._

Ed didn't want to live forever. But for now, he had to be immortal for his brother's sake.

….

Ed bounced back to the Colonel's office a short time later. He was beaming smiles again, but they faded a little once he entered the room, and realized that it was missing a certain seven-foot tall occupant.

"Hey, Bastard," he said, shooting a baffled look at Mustang, who was now in the outer office and leaning against Hawkeye's desk. "Where's Al?"

"Breda sent him to the Mess, since Al can bring back the most snacks in one trip," Havoc said. He shifted in his chair, his green eyes losing the light of laughter. "You okay there, Boss?"

Ed was about to ask what he meant, to brush off Havoc's concern with a laugh and a smile and a bounce. But then he noticed that every single set of eyes in the office was regarding him solemnly. The weight of their stares stopped Ed's bouncing, and put him firmly on his feet again.

He could read it on their faces, plain as day. They all knew exactly what had happened inside that bathroom.

Crap. Oh, crap. What if they told Al? He'd be so worried, so upset. They couldn't do this, they couldn't. How were they supposed to move forward when-  
A hand appeared in front of Edward's face, brandishing a white handkerchief. Ed blinked at it, his mental train effectively derailed.

"Sir," Hawkeye said quietly.

Edward took the white cloth. After a moment of hesitant confusion, he wiped it experimentally across his face. The cloth came back wet and red.

Oh, damn. In his quest to quell his shivers, he'd bitten his tongue again, enough to dribble blood on his chin.

If Al had been in the office when he'd come back…if he'd seen the stain on Edward's chin…

Ed buried his face in the handkerchief again to hide his suddenly widened eyes. He scrubbed the cloth vigorously across his skin, and refused to acknowledge that he was suddenly wiping away wetness other than blood.

The sound of heavy, crashing footsteps filled the hallway, and the handkerchief suddenly disappeared from Ed's hands. He blinked as Hawkeye tucked it away with unruffled and efficient hands, as Havoc and Breda lapsed into an easy, everyday argument, as Fuery busied himself at the switchboard, as Falman turned his attention back to paperwork.

"Better put your smile back on," Roy suggested. He was smirking, but his eyes were dark with knowledge. With understanding.

By the time Al bounced back into the room, his heavy arms stuffed with snacks, Ed's smile had not only returned, but had actually brightened into something sort of genuine.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: I. HAD. SO. MUCH. FUN. WRITING. THIS. I don't know why; it borders on being crack. But oh, how I enjoyed it. I hope you guys do too, considering all of my amazing reviewers/readers kick complete butt!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**Play It Back**

"This is ridiculous."

Roy crouched underneath his desk, and wondered where the hell he'd placed his sanity.

No, that wasn't right.

Roy crouched under his desk, and indeed wondered after his sanity. But in all honesty, there was no point in trying to identify exactly where and when he'd lost it. Odds were that if he'd ever had it all, it had been obliterated the second he'd stepped foot in Central Headquarters.

At least, Roy mused with grim resignation as the office carpet bit into his knees, he wasn't the only one cuddling up to a piece of furniture.

"Remind me again why I'm under my desk, instead of at it. I could be doing something productive, like paperwork."

His answer was preceded by a soft but disbelieving snort.

"This is a training exercise, Sir." Riza's voice reminded him from somewhere behind the couch. "And it's mandatory."

"Hide and seek, Hawkeye. We are playing _hide and seek_."

"Actually," Fuery's voice came from his squished position between the door and the filing cabinet. "It's more like reverse sardines than hide and seek."

"Fuery. Shut up."

"Yes," Hawkeye agreed. "Please be quiet. You two are going to give away our position."

Mustang eyed the wooden leg he was curled against and briefly considered introducing it to his forehead.

"You are taking this way too seriously, Hawkeye," he muttered.

He just barely heard Hawkeye's sniff of superiority.

"This training exercise was ordered by the Furher," she informed him loftily. "I would be remiss in my duties if I didn't take it seriously."

"Okay. Fine. But I really don't think you need your gun."

This time, his only answer was stony silence.

Roy sighed. He fiddled with the white glove in his pocket for a moment, and then pressed closer to the wooden desk. He'd flame himself before admitting it out loud, but it irked him to have Hawkeye show loyalty to anyone other than him.

The door to Mustang's office flew open with a swift and sudden bang. From where he was peeking around the desk, he saw Fuery just barely avoid getting smacked in the face.

_Why, oh why, _Roy thought darkly, even as he jerked back into position,_ did the Furher have to pick him to be it?_

"I see you, Bastard!" Ed pronounced cheerfully. "And Fuery, I heard you squeak when I almost hit you with the door."

Roy sighed, and rose smoothly to his feet. With as much dignity as he could muster after being spotted while bending himself in half under his own desk, he straightened his uniform.

"I knew you'd be in here," Ed continued, rocking back on his heels with a wide grin. "No creativity. Oh, and Hawkeye, I see you too."

Riza rose from behind the couch.

"Thank you, sir," she said, and holstered her gun.

"I couldn't see her," Fuery pointed out, as he eased out from behind the door. "How did you? We have the same vantage point."

"I didn't," Ed said easily. "But if the Bastard was hiding here, where else would she be?"

Roy smirked; he couldn't seem to stop it. He shot a quick, covert glance at Hawkeye, and she rolled her eyes discreetly in his direction.

"Come on!" Ed urged. "We've got more people to find!"

Roy followed him as he bounced out the door and down the hall, and couldn't prevent his eyebrow from pistoning. Something was seriously off. During the brief meeting in the Fuhrer's office, in which the leader had dropped the exercise bomb, Ed had been surprisingly silent. Roy had been primed to slap a hand over the kid's always eager mouth, and save himself the court martial. But Ed hadn't even uttered so much as one of his charming catchphrases (i.e, Bastard, Alphonse, Stone, Angst, Short Complex). He'd simply shrugged, in a manner too mellow to be patently Elric, and agreed to the exercise. And now, he was grinning ear to ear, and he hadn't once complained about all the precious research time he was wasting.

Roy followed the vibrating figure with great trepidation, and tried to put his finger on what exactly was so very wrong with Edward.

….

They found Breda in the Mess Hall, camped under a table with a carton of ice cream in one hand. He froze with the spoon in his mouth when Edward's head appeared, wearing an extremely pained expression.

"Geez, Breda," he said. "You're so predictable."

Breda grinned around his mouthful of Rocky Road.

"But I got a snack."

Ed snorted and dragged Breda out by the collar.

….

They found Havoc in the late General's empty office. He was also under the desk, but unlike Mustang, he wasn't curled up and cross. Instead, his legs stuck out from the hip down, and his feet were crossed at the ankle. Upon peeking under, it was revealed that his arms were crossed as well, tucked behind him to pillow his head.

"Aw," he said, once he saw Edward's upside down face. "Break's over already?"

Ed laughed, and aimed a friendly kick at his dangling feet.

"Yep. Get up, you lazy jerk. We've got more people to find."

Havoc heaved a long-suffering sigh, and climbed to his feet. His cigarette hung in a rather forlorn fashion from his bottom lip.

"I thought it'd take you longer," he said. "This office is supposed to be off limits."

Mustang folded his arms and smirked.

"Havoc, really?" he asked, voice very dry. "When has Fullmetal ever followed the rules?"

"I come here all the time," Ed confirmed cheerily. "It's quiet."

Everyone snickered.

"Besides," Mustang added as they walked towards the door. "We could smell you all the way down the hall."

….

"Sir."

Mustang glanced over at Hawkeye.

"You're watching him again," she murmured. "What are you trying to figure out this time?"

Mustang shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Don't you see the difference?"

….

They found Elysia standing in the middle of an empty room, with her hands planted firmly over her eyes.

"Um…," Ed wandered towards the little girl, clearly at a loss. "Elysia?"

"I'm invisible," she promptly replied. "I can't see you. So you can't see me."

Ed chuckled at the little girl logic.

"Yeah…I don't really think it works that way…" Ed reached to tug her pigtail, only to let out a sharp yelp when Elysia's little foot connected sharply with his shin.

"I'm _invisible_," she repeated insistently.

Mustang strolled to his hobbling subordinate's side.

"You've such a way with women, Fullmetal," he said, while Ed glared golden daggers at his forehead.

Elysia reared back and kicked out again, all without opening her eyes. Suddenly, there were two state alchemists hopping on one leg.

"_You _can't see me either."

Fifteen seconds later, they found Hughes hiding in a nearby closet. They were tipped off by the frantic click of his camera and the strained sound of his desperately muffled giggles.

….

"…."

"…."

"….The hell?"

They all stared, completely dumbfounded, at the sight of Major Armstrong, clad only in his brown spandex shorts, and pressed against a tree.

"I just…I don't…What is he…" Ed tried to find the words, and failed impressively. "Nothing. I have nothing."

"Major," Fuery tried hesitantly, because Armstrong had yet to move from the supposedly tree-like pose he'd arranged himself in. "We…ah….we can see you."

"My eyes. They burn!"

"It's like looking at the sun!"

Armstrong appeared not to hear Havoc and Breda's tortured moans. He snapped to life on a wave of pink sparkles, and let out a booming laugh.

"EDWARD ELRIC!"

"WHA-?"

Ed found himself suddenly enveloped by arms approximately the size of Breda's waist.

"What remarkable skill!" Armstrong bellowed, squeezing the boy until his face turned a rather alarming shade of blue. "You found me so very quickly! Such dexterity, especially when you consider that the art of concealment has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations!"

"You smell like tree sap, you jerk," Ed managed, his voice barely above a squeak.

Everyone looked concerned by Ed's apparent lack of oxygen. Except Mustang, of course, who was too busy laughing until his sides ached.

That is, until Armstrong spun in his direction, and descended upon him like a flesh-colored wall of doom.

"YOU MUST BE SO PROUD OF YOUR YOUNG PROTÉGÉ!"

"WHA!"

….

Luckily, Havoc was the first one to open the door to that particular broom closet. He took one step inside, and Ed, who was following hot on his heels, saw a single flash of Falman's uniform, before his world was suddenly obscured by a wide expanse of white glove.

"Hey!" he shouted, surprised. "What are you doing, Colonel Bastard? Let me go! I've got to get Falman!"

"Warrant Officer Falman will catch up with us shortly," Mustang announced, his voice strangely formal.

"But-"

"We startled him, Fullmetal," Mustang said, and was that mild _hysteria_ Ed heard in his voice? "We'll give Falman a moment to gather his…composure."

He kept his hand clapped firmly over Edward's eyes as he dragged the boy out of the broom closet. Once released, Ed snarled at him for the span of four corridors, until two pale-faced and silent figures expanded their little group and diverted Ed's attention.

"Hey. I don't remember finding you, Schiezka."

….

"Figured it out yet, Roy?"

Mustang looked over at his best friend.

"Have you?"

Hughes shrugged.

"Sure," he said. His eyes strayed to his little girl, who was chattering away at Havoc's side. "But then, I know what I'm looking at."

….

By the time they found Maria Ross, she wasn't even hiding anymore. She was standing in the middle of a brightly lit hallway, a look of supreme irritation on her face.

"Thank God," she said. "Someone get him off of me."

With his arms locked around her waist and his face buried in her hip, Danny Brosch peered up at the sudden group surrounding him. The group looked at him in turn, with varying expressions of complete hilarity, dry resignation, scandalized outrage, and downright bewilderment.

"I'm hiding," he offered.

Hawkeye quickly moved to peel him off, keeping a wary eye on Maria's dangerously dancing eyebrow.

….

There weren't many upsides to being a disembodied suit of armor. In his never-ending bid for optimism, Al had once tried to compile a list. He'd come up with less than seven. But on that tiny list, there was a single perk that Al was currently utilizing with great glee.

He didn't need to move.

He didn't need to breathe.

He looked like an inanimate object.

He was the _master ninja _of hide and seek.

They found him, after an hour of fruitless searching, inside the weapons warehouse out back. He'd settled himself in the protective covering division, and wedged his giant metal body in between two other old and battered suits of armor.

"Pretty good," Havoc observed, popping his hands on his hips.

"Yeah," Breda agreed. "Smart thinking, Al."

No response. The group shifted uneasily, searching for some hint of awareness in Al's metal face.

"Are…are you sure that's him?" Fuery asked.

Ed laughed.

"That's him," he said confidently. He reached out and tapped his fist against Al's side. "Come on, Al. Do you want me to crawl in there and show them your blood seal?"

Suddenly, the armor was alive. Al shoved the other two suits off of him, and leapt away like Ed was brandishing a metal slicing machete.

"Stay out of my armor, Brother!"

There was a warm wave of (slightly relieved) laughter.

"So, I guess that's it," Ed declared, wiping his hands on his pants. "I found everybody."

Al tiptoed back to his brother's side, now reassured that no one would be popping his helmet.

"That was fun, wasn't it, Brother?" he asked, his voice high and quick with excitement. "We haven't played a game like that in forever!"

"It's been a long time," Ed agreed, his golden eyes shining with a curious light.

"It's too bad Winry isn't visiting right now. Remember, Brother, we always used to play this game at her house!"

As the Elrics lapsed into a laughter-soaked memory, Mustang made a small, quickly muffled sound.

"Oh."

Hughes heard it, and looked over. He smiled at the sudden recognition on Roy's face and nodded, reaching out a hand for Elysia's shoulder.

"See it now?" he murmured.

Roy inclined his head. With soft eyes, he studied the smile on Elysia's little face, full of happiness and humor and innocent excitement for the game. Then he shifted, and studied the nearly identical smile curving Edward's lips.

That's what he'd seen. What had been itching between his shoulder blades ever since the beginning of the game. What had made Fullmetal seem foreign, somehow, and not altogether normal.

He was only sixteen. And he did smile. But it was so rare to see anything remotely childlike on Edward's face.

"All right, Fullmetal," he said, interrupting Al's recount of the time Ed had gotten himself stuck while trying to hide in Winry's kitchen wastebasket. "You found us. Think you can do it again?"

Ed blinked up at him, his brow furrowed.

"Again? But…don't we have work, or something?"

Roy smirked.

"This is a training exercise," he reminded him loftily. "Assigned by the Furher himself. I think that takes precedence over any work we may have waiting."

Behind him, his subordinate tittered in surprise, and Hawkeye muttered something about paperwork and really impressive procrastination techniques.

"But…I guess I thought…"

Roy let his smirk slide into a full-blown leer.

"What's the matter, Fullmetal? Was it too hard for you the first time? Afraid you can't do it again?"

Ed's face flamed.

"Bastard!" he shouted, stretching onto his tiptoes to reach Mustang's face. "You're on!"

Mustang wisely choked back his snicker as Ed slapped his hands over his eyes, and began to count furiously. There was a chorus of tight, breathless giggles that sounded completely strange coming from so many adults, and then they were off, bursting out the warehouse door. They snickered and snorted as they ran, like a group of teenagers sprinting away from the scene of a rather glorious prank. Mustang heard it, and allowed himself a dignified grin. Maybe this game was good for all of them.

He thought of Ed, standing alone and stubborn in the empty warehouse, no doubt counting away.

He couldn't make that smile last forever. In many ways, he was actually responsible for its absence, since it had been his idea to pull the boy into the army at such a young age. But he could make up for it as best he could.

He could give that smile a chance to shine.

Even if for just a little while.


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Thanks, as always, to my amazing reviewers/readers! You guys are truly amazing, and I treasure every one of you. I hope you enjoy the update (although, it's a little darker than I meant it to be)._

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**The Circles We Spin**

When Ed sat still and really thought about it, he realized just how much his life came down to circles. He couldn't always see it, but they invaded his very existence, interlocking like shackles. The circles formed a tight and binding chain, the most repetitive links most obviously made up of the transmutation symbols he created every time he clapped his hands. But while these may have been the most frequent, there were other links in the chain, other circles that had nothing to do with alchemy at all.

There was the constant loop of love and affection between him and his brother. That link in the chain was by far the most durable, and even though it showed some tarnish, Ed trusted it to never break.

The steps that he and Mustang danced around each other, steps formed from subtle insults and smirks and a total understanding, formed a circle as well, a circle far shakier than the one he shared with Al. The metal it was made of grew stronger every time Mustang went out of his way to help the Elrics, but it was still so very fragile.

The endless loop of nightmares in Ed's mind also made a circle, one stained black with grime and guilt. It dangled on the end of Ed's chain, and he wanted nothing more than to sever it from the shackle completely. But he needed Al human for that to happen, so for the time being, it stayed where it was, dirty and dark and smelling faintly of his mother's perfume.

There was only one link on Edward's chain that burned bright red, deviating from the silver, and sometimes black, color scheme. It was a circle that Ed should have severed a long time ago. It was far too hot, and forged of too many troublesome emotions. But every time Ed tried to snap the link, he found himself sucked back into the circle, where the fire burned brighter than before.

Some circles needed two people to step back in order to break the spin.

When Ed was fourteen, before he really understood what the circle was, and what it meant in relation to his chain, he put a fist in a man's face, because he caught him talking to Winry on the street while Ed ducked inside a store to complete a quick errand. Winry was visiting from Resimbool, and when Ed saw the man chatting her up, something inside of him snapped. The man wasn't doing anything wrong, not in the 'howdy-hey, your hand is on my friend's butt' sort of way. But something he said brought a soft flush to Winry's face, pinkening her cheeks and bringing a bright sparkle to her blue eyes. And as soon as Ed saw such a sweet, yielding expression on Winry's face, he reacted without bothering to run the action by his brain first. Before he was even aware of moving, he was making a mess of the man's face with his fist.

His _automail_ fist.

Later, when Ed stood shame-faced in front of Mustang, scuffing the carpet with a guilty foot, the Colonel informed him that the man wouldn't be pressing charges, mostly because Ed had frightened the ever loving shit out of him. While Ed blushed and sputtered and desperately searched for some sort of explanation for his behavior, Mustang sighed and rested his chin on his folded fingers.

"Listen, Fullmetal," he said quietly. "I…understand. Why you're judgment may not be as sound around Miss Rockbell."

Ed's face went as red as brick, and his eyes filled with embarrassment, and possibly a little fear.

"Bastard, you don't know anything!"

Mustang didn't answer with words. But the arch of his eyebrow did shatter several standing records, and when he used said appendage to redirect Ed's attention, the teenager had to oblige. He followed the line of Mustang's gaze, until he caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Hawkeye, hovering in the outer office, her arms full of paperwork. For a moment, the two men watched, taking in the almost serene expression on her face, and the graceful curl of her fingers around the pen she cradled.

When Edward turned back around, he saw the answer he'd been seeking in Mustang's eyes.

Maybe…maybe the Colonel understood after all.

That night, while he and Winry screamed their throats raw at each other, Ed watched the flush of rage fill her face, and felt the red link on his chain grow warm. He recognized it now; the reason for his reaction.

Winry shouldn't blush for anyone but him. Even if the only color he could bring to her face was inspired by anger, it was still for him, and so it was enough.

It should have been sweet, and soft, this discovery. But the only thing that this new circle brought was pain, to both of them.

Winry could never be number one in his life, not ever, because that spot would always belong to Alphonse. And Ed knew it.

And so did she.

But their specific link in the chain burned bright red for a reason. When metal melts, it runs together. And neither of them knew how to un-fuse themselves from the new shape they'd hardened into.

Although, that's not to say that they didn't try.

When Scar demolished Ed's arm, the teenager gripped the phone in his sweaty fist for at least fifteen minutes while he wrestled with his conscience. He knew that Central was full of automail mechanics. Any one of them could have fixed his arm, and without any of the messy emotional involvement that the blonde ultimately embodied. Bringing Winry from Resimbool was unnecessary, and only served to strengthen the bond that he _knew_ he should have been trying to sever.

He called her anyway, and cursed himself as a selfish bastard.

When they were fifteen, Ed started writing in his letters to Winry about all the different girls he met on his travels. Beautiful and exotic females that Ed completely fabricated, in one of his more noble attempts to push the girl away.

One night, Winry boarded the overnight train to Central, and dropped by Edward's dormitory, under the pretense of a 'Surprise Automail Check-Up'. She spent the next week at his side, stuck to him like glue, and glaring daggers at any girl that so much as glanced at him.

On and on.

They hurt each other on purpose, because they could. Ed with dismissive gestures and careless words, and Winry with hot insults and a hard wrench. They burrowed into each other's skin with metaphorical claws, desperately trying to draw blood, wishing it would push the other away while secretly hoping that they'd leave scars like stamps of ownership.

On and on.

Ed got used to the sight of Winry's tears. To his disgust, he found that they didn't bother him anymore, because they were for him, after all. Winry's tears were a signal, a sign, that she still felt, felt _something_, for the older Elric. Even if that _something_ was mostly anger and despair.

Although, the rage was better, it burned cleaner, than the huge, hopeless ball of caring that stretched underneath. The caring hurt _so much more_ than the hate sometimes, because it never went away. It just existed, always constant and never changing, a helpless jumble of want and need and _no, I don't mean it, stay with me, please_.

Once, after a particularly vicious cycle, Winry made an honest attempt to walk out, to walk away for good. Ed stood there, his automail cold, colder than normal against his skin, and tried to pretend that the sight of her retreating back didn't fill with him with panic.

_It's better. It's good this way. Let her go. She deserves more than this; she's worth more than you can give her. _

But the circle they'd formed couldn't be denied. They'd spent too much time strengthening it with false starts and failed attempts at escape.

_Don't. Don't do it. Let her go. Why can't you let her go?_

Ed caught her wrist in his automail fingers.

"Winry. Wait. Don't leave. I need you."

_Bastard. Cold, cruel, sadistic __**bastard**__. _

Later, after Winry didn't leave, Ed felt her hot tears strike his bare back as she made unnecessary adjustments to his arm.

"It's never going to end, is it," she whispered, but Ed knew that she wasn't talking to him. "You won't let me go, and I can't walk away. " For a moment her hand rested, a living flame on his shoulder blades. "Why can't we make this stop?"

Ed heard the despair in her voice, and shut his eyes against his own sense of helplessness. But he didn't move to cover his automail, to hide the thing that tied them together.

Once, towards the end of everything, Ed tried to explain it to his most important person.

"It's not that we want to hurt each other," he said softly, while a silent Al hung on his every word. "But we'll do it, we'll both do it, if it means keeping us together. But it still doesn't work. Because it's not enough. She should be the most important thing to me, and we both know it, but she's not, and that's where the hurt is. The center of the circle."

Once, after returning to Resimbool exhausted and exquisitely battered once again, Winry tried to clarify it to her concerned grandmother.

"We like it, I guess," she said, with a small, weary smile. "In a way. The pain. It's ours, just ours, and that makes it special, and sweet. It's like we'd rather share something like that, than have nothing at all. And those are our only two options. Believe me-we've tried everything else."

And so it went.

They fought, tooth and nail, against what was meant, and only succeeded in struggling closer to each other. It was the only link in Ed's chain that made him dizzy when he looked at it. But they couldn't break the circle; they couldn't stop caring.

They could only spin.

With their eyes shut, and their arms out.

And spin.

Knowing that eventually, they'll fall.

...

_A/N: Whoooooooa, angst. Never again shall I listen to 'Love the Way You Lie' by Eminem while I write. That's what this chapter was inspired by, in case anyone picked up on it while reading. I don't actually believe that Ed and Winry's relationship is this dark, but there were definite parallels in the song, so I wrote them out in their most extreme form. Hopefully, I didn't frighten any of you away! Happy Reading!_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: OK. There's really no excuse for this one. I've stopped tip-toeing around the edge and have officially fallen into Happy-Crackland. The title of this one is more appropriate than you think. Oh, well. I had a blast writing (aka, giggled like an absolute lunatic) so hopefully you all find it funny as well. Please keep just that in mind; it's supposed to be funny, so try to read it all the way through if something trips your internal 'oh, hell no!' radar. As always, many thanks to my amazing reviewers/readers. You guys rock so hard!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**Down The Rabbit Hole**

Edward knew something was wrong the second he set foot inside Mustang's office. The bastard didn't even look up from his paperwork as Ed banged the door open, just kept signing away with a tiny, quiet smile. Ed should have been used to it, being ignored was one of the Colonel's favorite slow-building short jokes, after all-

_WOULD YOU STOP SIGNING AND LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD? I'VE BEEN TALKING YOUR EAR OFF FOR THE PAST FIFTEEN MINUTES!_

…_Hmm? Oh, Fullmetal. When did you get here? Has it really been fifteen minutes? My apologies; how terribly rude of me. My attention span must be a bit…short today._

-but the Colonel wasn't hiding a smirk behind his towering stack of official forms, and his eyes were empty of that creeping, devious amusement. Yes, Ed had been ignored before, but never with such…serenity. Ed explored Mustang's pleasantly peaceful face for even a tiny hint as to his ever-present ulterior motive, but after several seconds of fruitless searching, was forced to conclude that the bastard didn't seem to _have_ one, not today.

For some reason, the thought terrified him right down to the tips of his toes.

And forced him to kick the door shut behind him hard enough to shudder it, in an attempt to regain some sense of normalcy.

"Got a mission for me, Colonel Bastard?"

Finally, at the sound of Ed's overly exaggerated dislike, Mustang looked up from his paperwork.

And the expression on his face _shifted_, but not into something snide and smirky, or anything Ed was prepared to deal with. Instead, his eyes brightened with impossible joy, and a tiny, predatory smile curved his lips, and Ed froze like a robot with screwed up sensors.

_Danger! Danger! _

"Fullmetal. You're here."

_Unknown emotional bastardry ahead!_

"…Yes," Ed replied cautiously. "You called the dorm, said you had a mission for me."

"Ah, right. Hold on a moment."

Ed watched Mustang manhandle the papers on his desk (really, was it necessary to lick his fingers _every time_ he turned a page, because _gross_), his eyebrows so high on his forehead that they threatened to fuse with his hair. If it had been anyone else acting so strangely, he might have wondered if maybe, by chance, they were starting to lose their marbles and should maybe consider a nice little leave from the military lifestyle. Maybe.

But this was _Mustang._ The bastard always had an angle. And he never needed a break. He'd still be twisting unsuspecting minds long after his retirement to the Old Fuhrer's Home.

So Ed didn't waste his brain power on concern when he knew that he'd be needing all of it for SUSPICION.

In all caps. Because, again. This was _Mustang_.

"Hurry up, would you?" he whined, because it was expected of him. "I haven't got all day, you know."

"I'm sorry, Fullmetal. Am I wasting your time?"

And Ed choked on the sarcastic comment he'd had all nice and ready on his tongue, because the asshole didn't sound smug, or even pissed. He actually sounded _concerned_. Like he was sort of, maybe, a little bit sorry about dragging Edward away from the library and down to his office. Which was just ridiculous, really, because Edward knew that Mustang got his jollies from bastard-ing away the minutes in his day.

"I do apologize for that," Mustang said, and Ed's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the purr in his voice. "But I guess I couldn't wait. I just had to see you, Edward."

Eh? Edward? Since when?

"The mission can't be _that_ important," Ed offered, with an awkward and uncertain shift.

"Not at all," Mustang agreed, waving the located file folder with supreme unconcern. "But you see, I have a mission of my own. And it's of great importance to me."

"The Fuhrer's putting your lazy ass out in the field?" Ed asked, with a snort. "You'll be dead in five minutes. Flat."

Mustang used one hand to hold down the mission folder, and the other to prop up his chin.

"It's not a field mission, Fullmetal."

"Reconnaissance, then? Makes sense, you've always been a sneaky bastard…"

"My mission. Is you."

Silence reigned. Like a little monarch. It marched around the office with a scepter and everything.

"…What d'you mean by that?" Ed's face darkened with rage. "Did the Fuhrer assign you to spy on me or something? I'm not telling that creep anything I've learned about the Philosopher's Stone!"

Mustang gave a little sigh, and shifted his chin. His eyes were hooded, and almost lazy, as he watched his subordinate shout.

"You misunderstand, Fullmetal. Do try to keep up. My mission isn't to babysit you. Trust me when I say that this mission requires me to…see you as a man."

WHAT. OH MY GOD. WHAT.

Now, normally, Ed would have given Mustang the benefit of the doubt. Not even a super suave bastard like him could be aware of everything he said all the time, right?

But…

But…

The finger licking. And the…man-seeing. And the un-bastard like concern.

NOPE. NOT GOING THERE. NOT TOUCHING THAT WITH A TEN FOOT AUTOMAIL POLE.

"Heh." Ed tried a nervous chuckle and eased back a step. Even Mustang was entitled to one bastard-sized breakdown. He'd just go get Hawkeye; she'd been putting up with his crazy for years and surely she'd know what exactly which blunt instrument was needed to smack his head and set him right.

DON'T SHOW FEAR. HE'LL SMELL IT IF YOU DO, HE'LL SMELL IT AND HE'LL…HE'S ON HIS FEET WHY IS HE ON HIS FEET SIT BACK DOWN YOU CRAZY BASTARD.

Ed gave Mustang the fish-eye as the Colonel rose smoothly from his chair (and proceeded to _loom_ all over his desk), and tried to pretend that his throat wasn't dryer than the desert outside of Lior.

"I like your pants."

"Bwah?"

Mustang gave a slow, satisfied nod.

"They _cling_," he breathed, and his dark eyes went heavy and half-lidded.

HE IS EYE RAPING MY PANTS. HE IS _EYE RAPING_ MY PANTS. HOLY HELL ON HOMUNCULUS CRACKER IS RETREAT ALWAYS AN ACT OF COWARDICE?

"The…the hell is wrong with you today?" Ed demanded. Well, Ed tried to demand. It came out kind of weak and wobbly and a little bit terrified.

Mustang's tiny smile morphed into a full-blown predator's grin, and Ed would deny unto his dying day that he made a sort of girly scream at the sight of it.

HAWKEYE. HE'S YOUR HEADACHE. SO WHY AREN'T YOU HERE WITH A MUZZLE AND A NICE SEDATIVE ALREADY?

"Come, come, Edward. There's no need to be coy." Mustang leered at the pants that he had just professed his fondness for. "You've been flirting with me for ages. I'm just returning the favor."

Ed had no internal monologue for that, because he was too busy tripping over his own brain.

"YOU…I…GAH…!" He grabbed his own head in his hands and briefly considered banging it against a wall. It would probably be less painful than this conversation anyway. "I WAS NOT FLIRTING, YOU DISGUSTING PERVERT! I HATE YOUR STUPID GUTS, REMEMBER?"

"Mmm." The sound Mustang made was positively obscene, and frankly, Ed believed that no man Mustang's age should be allowed to make it. Or even know it existed. Ever. "I know the truth, Edward, but you can deny it if you want. You're so full of fire." He tapped his fingers gently against his desk and dropped a wink. "I've always known just how to handle fire."

"I will _throw up on your desk_!"

"Go ahead," Mustang invited. "Nothing can deter me from my mission, Edward. I will obtain it."

Ed opened his mouth to rant some more, or possibly to follow through with his threat and ruin the fine wood finish of Mustang's desk, but went instead went stock still before he could make a sound. Golden eyes went as wide as dinner plates.

"Are you…sparkling?" Ed asked, and his voice was soft with absolute horror.

"Of course," Mustang said, and shrugged like this was an everyday occurrence, along with losing his _freaking mind_ and suddenly declaring his love for certain innocent blonde alchemists. "I borrowed them from Armstrong. He told me that they've been helping members of the Armstrong line win over their loves for generations."

"_Please set me on fire now_."

Mustang laughed, a throaty, purring sort of sound, and gave his head a toss.

"Don't be afraid, Edward. Don't you see that every time we fought, every time we sniped and snarled and pretended to hate each other, we were only repressing the innermost feelings of our hearts?" Dark eyes flashed triumphantly. "Our love was meant to be!"

OUT. OF. HERE. _NOW_. PROTECT YOUR INNOCENCE, ELRIC! RUN LIKE THE FREAKING WIND!

Edward ran like he had all seven homunculi and possibly a pissed off Teacher with a sharp stick and her husband's meat cleaver at his back. And behind him, Mustang was still waxing poetic about their supposed sublime love.

"We'll make beautiful man-babies!"

…...

At exactly three-thirty in the morning, Edward Elric _leapt_ out of his regulation dormitory bed and began to flail impressively, while simultaneously speaking in tongues and scaring the shit out of his baby brother.

"Brother? Brother! What's wrong?"

"BLLLLLLRNGH! BLARGH! YAAAAAACK!"

"Brother! What's going on? Are you possessed? Should I exorcise you? Do I need a Bible? BROTHER WE DON'T HAVE A BIBLE I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!"

"BLEACH!"

"…Bleach? Brother?"

"OH MY GOD AL GET THE BLEACH OUT OF THE LAUNDRY ROOM AND DUMP IT ON MY EYES BECAUSE IT'S LIKE SEEING GLUTTONY NAKED OR HUGHES MAKING OUT WITH HIS WIFE AND I CAN'T UNSEE IT AND IT _BURNS!"_

_ "_Brother…what were you dreaming about just now?"

"BUUUUUUUUURNS!"

…

Hawkeye hovered deliberately in the outer office, shuffling the same stack of paperwork for the fourteenth time, and keeping one careful eye on Mustang's door. It's not that she didn't trust Edward alone with the Colonel. God knew that they'd had enough fights inside that office to rock the Headquarter walls. It was the only way they knew how to communicate, and it really was best to just let them go about it, and then take care of the damage control later on.

But Edward had just looked so…agitated upon his arrival. More so than usual. And he'd spent a good two minutes twitching at Mustang's door before actually opening it.

And. It was so quiet. Hawkeye hadn't yet heard one shout about _short_, or _bastard_, and that made her more nervous than anything else.

But just as she was considering using the paperwork in her hands as a subtle ploy to get inside the room and spy, a sudden scream ripped the office air in half.

"OH NO YOU DON'T YOU HANDSY BASTARD! PERVERTS STAY ON THAT SIDE OF THE DESK!"

"Whaugh-?"

_FlashcrashBOOM_.

"And my pants do. Not. CLING!"

Hawkeye was already on her feet and running when the office door flew open.

"Edward, what-!"

The boy marched past her, his face flushed red.

"Uh. I'll fix it later!"

And then he was gone, sweeping out the door, and Alphonse was running after him, shouting; "Brother, what happened? He was just trying to hand you your mission report. Brother!"

Resolving to deal with them later, Riza ran the rest of the way into the Colonel's office.

And stopped.

And _stared_.

"Um. Sir?"

Inside the mess that used to be his beloved chair, Mustang squirmed against the leather ropes restraining him and mumbled something around the fabric gag.

The only words Riza could hear clearly were 'psychotic', 'short complex', and 'court martial'.

...

_A/N: Because we've all had a dream like that, right? That makes us wake up and go; "GROSSOHMYGODWHATTHEHELL!". This chapter was also a partial request fulfillment for ZemyxDexion; sorry, it's probably not what you wanted exactly. But I tried to make you happy while staying inside my comfort zone. Counts for something, right? I really am a sucker; I can't say no to requests from you guys. I enjoy the challenge too much. Until next time!_


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, THIS 24 PAGE MONSTER, THIS 6,000 WORD ONESHOT THAT OMNOMNOMED MY ENTIRE LIFE? THIS STUPID THING MUTATED ON ME, AND IS NOW THE LONGEST PIECE I HAVE EVER WRITTEN FOR THE SITE. AND ITS IN MY ONE-SHOT COLLECTION. WHAT THE HELL. WHAT THE HELL._

_Thanks, as always, to my ABSOLUTELY KICKASS readers, and espeically reviewers, who wait patiently while I struggle with ONE-SHOT MUTANT PLOT BUNNIES FROM HELL. I love you all muchly. _

_HA, SEE THAT, YOU STUPID ONE-SHOT? I FINISHED YOU! I FINISHED YOU AND I TOTALLY SURVIV-*facedesksnoredead*._

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**The Absolute**

Dr. Max Ravine stared at the group in front of him, and struggled not to squirm. He was a damn doctor, his certificates were mounted on the wall behind him, and he was not going to _squirm_ in front of potential patients.

No, not even if two of the clients sitting in front of him were highly celebrated state alchemists, of superior rank to his.

And his eyes definitely didn't stumble over the size of the gun strapped to the woman's waist. Nope. Not at all.

_Shit._

He folded his hands on his desk, and studiously avoided the dark eyes tracking his with smug amusement.

"I suppose you're wondering why I called you here," he started. His fingers were long and thin (not suited for a gun, they'd declared, which was why they'd given him the desk instead), and he folded them nervously now on the wooden surface.

The round one reached behind his head and offered up a sheepish smile.

"Yeah. No offense, Doc, but this is the second time we've seen you in a week. There are other things we should be doing, true?"

"Breda has a point," the woman agreed, and Ravine managed to meet her eyes without looking at her gun at all. "We completed the test that we were ordered by the Furher to undergo. Were you not satisfied with the results?"

"Um…," She wouldn't really shoot him for a wrong answer, would she? "Not…not exactly."

"Ugh!"

One booted foot swept out and kicked at Ravine's desk. He was the only one who jumped. The others just glanced at the offender with amused and exasperated tolerance.

"This is a waste of my time!" The boy-_not a boy, mustn't think of him as a boy, look at his eyes, he's got __**years**__ on me-_snapped. "Look, Doc, no offense or anything, but I only have a certain amount of hours before this bastard-" he jerked a thumb at the Colonel, who looked completely unsurprised by this blatant display of disrespect, "-sends me on some stupid mission. When my free time is so limited, you and your mind games drop a few rungs on my priority ladder, you see?"

"Cut Dr. Ravine some slack, Fullmetal," the Colonel said lazily, his mouth curling into a quasi-smirk as he noticed that Max had yet to scoop his jaw off his desk, where it had landed upon hearing Edward's pet name for him. "And ease off a little. I don't think he's quite ready to deal with our little family dynamics."

The boy made a high-pitched sound of frustration, and proceeded to vibrate all over his chair. Absently, through the thick layers of shock stuffing his mind, Dr. Ravine wondered if perhaps the famous Fullmetal Alchemist suffered from a rather spastic case of ADD.

"But I did the test!" Ed protested. "Used the correct pencil and everything, you jerk. So what am I still doing here?"

Mustang gave a lethargic slug, looking for all the world like he didn't care one way or the other. But Dr. Ravine watched those dark eyes go sharp, and nearly swallowed his own tongue.

_My God_, he realized, glancing around the group.

Breda and Havoc were bickering quietly, and looked one step away from brawling on the office carpet. The First Lieutenant had both eyes on them and an idle hand on her gun, and she didn't look particularly opposed to using it as a disciplinary tool. The Warrant Officer Falman looked blank and bored, unmoving in his chair like a block of wood. Sergeant Master Fuery kept shooting Ravine nervous looks, like an overeager student afraid of doing the assignment wrong. And the two alchemists, Colonel Mustang and Major Elric, were watching him with an intelligence in their eyes that bordered on bright and blinding brilliance, an intelligence that the both of them hid through useful smokescreens such as lazy gestures and restless fidgeting.

_I could write an entire freaking textbook on this squad alone. There are so many mental disorders in this room right now, I don't know whether to diagnose, or just call for an exorcist instead._

Mustang cleared his throat discreetly, drawing Dr. Ravine away from his half-intrigued, half-horrified musings.

"While I understand that the question was rather inelegantly phrased-"

"Snap your fingers and flame yourself, you jerk."

"-it still maintains its standing as a pertinent issue," Mustang finished, his perfectly polite and proper voice rolling right over Ed's offended suggestion. "We completed the test, as ordered by the Fuhrer. But since we are now sitting in your office, I can safely assume that our answers were insufficient in some way?"

"Ah…," Damn it, did the man have to throw him by tossing out words like some sort of towering dictionary?

_Walk it off, Ravine. You did Doctor school, remember?_

"Colonel Mustang," Dr. Ravine said firmly, forcing his own intimidation to the far reaches of his brain. "Do you remember the exact wording of the test assigned to you?"

Another lazy shrug.

"No. Not…exactly," Mustang murmured, but Ravine could read it word for word in his hooded eyes.

"We were to compile a list of truths," Riza Hawkeye offered, skillfully drawing Ravine's soft grey eyes from darkest blue to sherry instead. "Personal beliefs that each of us adhere to in our daily lives."

"Didn't we do that?" Fuery asked quietly. He flushed when all eyes turned in his direction, and lowered the hand he'd raised. "I'm sorry, Dr. Ravine, sir. But I truly believed that I completed the test in a satisfactory manner."

"Outwardly, the answers were fine," Dr. Ravine said hastily, driven by his instinctive urge to soothe. "They answered the question posed within the test."

Edward's impatient sigh was loud enough to rattle the pencils on Ravine's desk.

"Then _why_-"

"Perhaps if you hear them again, you'll be able to understand the problem," Ravine suggested quickly. He lifted a slim folder stuffed with papers from his desk. "I'll read bits of them to you."

He expected horrified squawking, or at least vehement protests, in the wake of his decision to read pieces of their personal thoughts out loud. Instead he was greeted with a comfortable sort of silence, heavily woven with amusement. The type of atmosphere belonging to a group that had already aired its dirty laundry for the other members to see, and now found the re-revealing of secrets to be spectacularly funny the second time around.

"Um…," Dr. Ravine fumbled, momentarily thrown by their lack of concern. "This…this is the first one. 'Rocky road is always better straight out of the carton' and 'The days remaining until Armageddon can be measured by the success of Havoc's love life."

"Hey!" Havoc sputtered, while the rest of the squad snickered into their fists. "Breda!"

The officer flashed his teeth in a tight, cheek-stretching smile.

"Sorry, buddy," he said, dripping false sympathy. "It's not just a personal truth. It's universal."

Havoc turned wounded eyes in Ravine's direction.

"Nobody understands my pain," he informed him piteously.

"Ugh, you and your Rocky Road, Breda," Edward complained, ignoring Havoc's woe completely. "You've got empty cartons all over the office."

Riza's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Really."

Breda's face went as white as wax paper, and his smile disappeared like it had never curved his lips at all.

"Ah. Um. I'll clean them up, I promise!"

"Of course."

"Dr. Ravine," Mustang prodded gently, because the man's jaw was drooping again. "The answers?"

"R-right," he responded with a start, shuffling the papers in his palms. "Um. 'Circuitry should never be crossed', and 'Never gamble past payday'."

"Aww," Breda said with a laugh.

Falman's mouth actually sort of maybe almost curved into the shadow of a smirk.

"Sound advice, Fuery," he murmured.

The Sergeant Master's cheeks went as pink as roses and his hands balled into earnest fists.

"It is!" he insisted. "I didn't eat three straight meals for weeks the last time I lost a bet to you!"

"Hmm. It's your own fault for not believing me. I _told_ you that Al's armor doesn't actually…"

Falman's monotone trailed off as Ed rocked forward in his chair and whipped his head around, golden eyes narrowed and glittering dangerously.

"What? What about Al?"

Falman's face actually blanched a little.

"Ah. Nothing, Ed," Fuery said, with a high, nervous laugh. "Never you mind!"

"Moving on!" Ravine all but bellowed, reading the sudden danger in the Major's face like a well-loved book. " 'All inter-personal and mission-related conflicts can be solved by a well-aimed pistol' and 'No commanding officer is to be left alone with his paperwork for more than twenty minute intervals, lest spontaneous narcolepsy occur'".

Ed, Breda, and Havoc roared with laughter, while the Colonel, looking very put out, crossed his arms over his chest and muttered; "I knew there was a schedule."

"Are you disputing the claim, sir?" Riza asked, her own humor softening the edges of her mouth.

"Pfft," Ed interrupted. "Like he could. Haven't we _all_ caught him snoring on his paperwork? More than once?"

Mustang's eyes flashed, a warning boiled hot with annoyance.

"Now, now, Fullmetal," he cooed, while his eyes promised death by immolation. "I enjoy a good joke as much as the next officer, and I appreciate Lieutenant Hawkeye including me in the levity, but surely you don't want Dr. Ravine, _who works for the Fuhrer_, to actually think that I'd do anything with my _official documents_ other than diligently sign them?"

Ed snorted, but fell silent all the same. Satisfied, Mustang turned back to the doctor and prompted him again.

"You were saying?"

"Yes," Ravine agreed, surrendering the illusion of his calm, collected, doctorly demeanor with a sigh. "Next. 'I am a hot chick magnet that is thwarted only by the unfair influence of others in my social sphere' and 'Alchemy is wicked impressive and all, but can never be scarier than Hawkeye in a bad mood'".

"Ah," Breda said, nodding wisely and with a grin. "You're referring to…the incident."

Everyone cringed sympathetically, even as they laughed.

"The incident?" Ravine repeated in an almost-whisper, morbid curiosity surging past his common sense.

Hawkeye flipped him an uninterested look.

"Just a misunderstanding," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Easily resolved."

Havoc muttered something under his breath, something that, to Ravine, sounded like _shot at me for not sharing my chocolate, you complete psycho. _

"It hardly grazed you," Hawkeye, who apparently had ears like a bat, returned. "Inter-office sharing is an important tool for building trust between comrades. And I needed it more than you."

Havoc squeaked. The 'unfair influence in Havoc's social sphere' just sat in his chair and smirked.

"Next paper," Ravine squeaked. " 'If asked, Breda always started it' and 'Any wager with Fuery always ends in easy money'".

"Weeks!" Fuery wailed, shaking his impotent fists at the ceiling. "I hardly ate for _weeks_!"

"Hmmph." Breda's grin toppled into a small pout. "I _do not_ always start it."

Havoc's sudden cough sounded suspiciously like, "Lies!"

Ed snickered.

"Go ahead, Doctor," Hawkeye invited, studiously ignoring the boys behind her. "We can't have many left."

Ravine clutched the two sheaves of paper left in his palms and wondered why the hell he'd left these for last.

"Um," he winced a little, preparing himself for possible explosions. "'Eyes don't need to move to enforce an effective guilt-trip' and…ah…," Ravine cleared his throat helplessly, and after abandoning his earlier resolve, gave an uncomfortable squirm in is seat, "'The quantity of bastard that Roy Mustang is never actually changes, he just fluctuates the amount that he draws from his inner well of asshole on a day by day basis'."

Ravine looked up from the paper slowly, cheeks burning, horrified that he'd called a superior officer such vulgar names, even inadvertently. But the emotion that Mustang was struggling to keep off his face wasn't offense; it was amusement. He bit back the snicker (Ravine could all but see it wiggling between his teeth), but he couldn't stop the stretching, almost stupid smirk.

Edward, on the other hand, looked greatly pleased with himself, and had absolutely zero qualms about showing it.

"Inner well?" Mustang repeated, and they all pretended that the slight hitch in his voice had nothing to do with all that laughter he was frantically shoving back down his throat.

Ed nodded, his golden eyes slitting with satisfaction.

"_Buckets_," he elaborated with vicious, hissing pleasure. "You just draw it up and dump on people whenever you're feeling snarky."

"I know what you mean though, Boss," Havoc said, since Mustang had fallen silent to better focus on smothering unmanly snorts and not busting his ribs with compressed laughter. "About Al's eyes. Every time I light up in front of him, he watches me. He never says anything. But that armor of his just radiates _failure _in my direction."

"Yeah, that's Al," Ed said, stretching his arms behind his head. "And while we're on the subject, I'd like to get back to him sometime in the next millennium. So, finish it up, would ya, Doc?"

"Of course." Ravine had a strategy. It wasn't going to work, of course, but in his profession, he understood the need for such defense mechanisms. "'There is a direct correlation between the appeal of a woman and the hemline of her skirt' and 'Short and sweet are not always synonyms'."

He read the second one fast, so fast that it was hardly more than a jumble of words, hoping to sweep it under the rug while the First Lieutenant's eyes were still dangerously narrowed on her superior. But Riza Hawkeye apparently wasn't the only one with ears like a bat, and the oldest Elric was ninja-flipping out of his seat before Ravine could breathe a sigh of relief. He watched with mild horror as Breda, Havoc, and Falman tackled him back into his chair, tasting something like _doom_ on the back of his tongue.

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE COULD POLE DANCE ON A TOOTHPICK YOU MANSLUT _BASTARD_!"

Ravine, after he stopped trying to fade back and become one with his chair, saw Mustang release exactly one snicker under the safe cover of Edward's screams.

"Sorry about that, Doc," Havoc panted after they managed to muscle Ed's butt back into touching the wooden planks of his seat. "His brother's not here to wrangle him, and we're not as fast at it as he is."

"No…problem," Ravine squeaked.

Ed continued to sputter several imaginative (and sometimes anatomically impossible) curses, until Breda slapped a casual hand over his mouth, wincing a little as Ed snapped at his fingers.

"So, about those answers, Doc," he ventured, panting a little as Ed continued to flail against his chair. "You didn't like them, or what?"

"They…," Ravine cleared his throat and struggled to bring back the air of professionalism currently cowering in the back of his brain. "They didn't fulfill the requirements of the test."

"How so?" Mustang asked, holding a casual hand over his mouth to cover his smirk.

"The test was designed to determine personal values, and in turn, priorities that a soldier might consider out on the battlefield. By understanding what someone holds closest, we can comprehend the actions they'll take in a hostile situation." Ravine, figuring that he'd lost all claims to credibility one unmanly squeak ago, squirmed again. "But, Colonel Mustang, the answers that you and your crew gave revealed nothing of your actual principles. I can't, in good faith, declare you fit for duty based on the answers you and your crew gave."

Edward's flailing snapped off like a light switch. Hesitantly, Havoc, Breda, and Falman pulled their hands away.

"Can't declare us fit for duty," the boy repeated, golden eyes snapping with suspicion and intelligence. "What does that mean, Doc? You'll take us off of missions?"

Ravine swallowed nervously.

"Among other things…yes."

"No!" Ed spun to face Mustang in immediate appeal. "Colonel Bastard, he can't! Al and I…we need those missions. We need…you know we need to travel."

Mustang held out a placating hand, all traces of his smirk vanished. Following his lead, his other men fell into watchful silence.

"Calm down, Fullmetal," he said, his voice soft and serious. "Dr. Ravine called us in to his office to address the problem, instead of turning our answers in straight to the Fuhrer. That certainly seems to suggest something…doesn't it, Doctor?"

"You're one of the best military squads there is," Ravine said uncomfortably. "Your team is made up of several important, and hard to combine, components. You're an asset to the Fuhrer, and I'd hate to take you off of active duty for something as simple as this."

Edward let out a frustrated snarl.

"So we have to redo them?" he asked. "But I don't even know what I did wrong the first time! You wanted truths, right?"

"Absolute truths, Major," Ravine corrected carefully. "The truth that your life is based on, the truth that holds the highest clarity in your eyes. The truth that no one will ever be able to prove wrong."

Ed's face paled. His eyes went dark, and deep, and suddenly Ravine could measure his years by the ghosts in his gaze. He shot a short, hunted look in Mustang's direction.

"Do I have to?" his voice was soft, and so very different from his earlier screams.

"When the owner yanks the leash, Fullmetal," Mustang returned quietly, and even thought the sentence didn't necessarily make sense to Ravine, Edward seemed to understand it perfectly. He let out a swift, angry huff of air, and settled back in his chair.

_Whoa_, Ravine realized with a blink. _More there than I thought; way more. It's not just hate and anger with those two._

"Dr. Ravine," Mustang said, calling the man's attention back from his own thoughts. "My squad and I will take you up on the extension you've so graciously offered. When do you want the answers by?"

"Tomorrow?" Ravine asked. "I'm sorry, I…I'm sort of running out of time."

"No, we appreciate the opportunity," Mustang said, and when he turned to address his squad, Ravine realized that they all spoke the same language of silent understanding, not just the Major. Really, Ravine shouldn't have been surprised.

After all, he'd read their answers out loud, they'd all known who the words had belonged to even though he'd never said the names that had accompanied them.

"By tomorrow, Ravine. I promise."

…

Ravine stared at the promised pack of papers on his desk with something like apprehension. It had been delivered in a perfectly appropriate timeframe, and Ravine should have been pleased by the promptness. Instead, he skirted around the folder like he feared it would sprout fangs and snap at him.

There were secrets in Mustang's squad…secrets buried deep, and dark. Secrets that Ravine, who had spent years dealing with soldiers suffering from nightmares only war could create, wasn't sure he was prepared to deal with.

He took a deep breath before flipping open the folder, and briefly considered setting a stiff drink at his elbow.

The First Lieutenant's answer was first. Instead of a bulleted list, like last time, a neatly written paragraph adorned the page instead.

_My absolute truth, my very first priority, is also my most closely guarded secret, and yet no secret at all. Anyone who knows me knows who my eyes are always observing. They watch me watch him, and they whisper, and laugh. Poor Riza, they say. Poor, pitiful Lieutenant. And a part of it is that, I suppose. But the secret, and the truth, is that what he means to me is so much more than something so easily defined. In a way, he is my absolute truth. I am loyal to him not because of love, or because he deserves it, but because he embodies something so much larger, something universal. He embodies hope. _

_I follow him. And I fight for him first, and not my country. That, I suppose, is my absolute truth, and the answer to your question._

Stunned, his throat as dry as summer-baked dirt, Ravine pressed his hand over the paper as if he could make the words disappear under his palm.

Treason.

Riza Hawkeye's words were treason. But she'd still turned them over to him.

Why? For God's sake, he could ruin her with this. _Why?_

With slightly shaking fingers, Ravine pushed her page aside, and turned to the next. It belonged to Warrant Officer Falman.

_I don't talk a lot. _

_But that's all right. Colonel Mustang didn't pick me for my silver tongue. He picked me for my ability to listen. When you don't speak, people forget you're there. They forget, and you fade, and then they say things that they wouldn't otherwise. I know so many things, about so many people, and I report them to Mustang so that he can hide the information away for further use._

_I hate it. I absolutely hate having so much power over other people. And the Colonel knows it. But he knows I won't leave him, either. Not ever._

_And that's my absolute truth._

Ravine's eyes were wide again, and growing wider. But he was stuck now, drugged and drawn in and helpless against the fascination.

Second Lieutenant Havoc was next.

_I come across as pretty goofy, right? And not particularly fond of the Colonel. And pretty useless, when you compare me to the Boss, who's a literal genius and can blow things up with a clap, or Hawkeye, who hits everything she aims at, or even Fuery, who does shit with circuitry that I can't even pronounce. So, what am I doing there, right? I just chase girls and suck on cigarettes and fight with Breda. _

_I owe him. And like, three people know this, so keep it on the quiet side, okay Doc? The Colonel saved my life once. I won't go into details, don't think I could even if I tried. But he saved me, and he didn't have to, and even though I'm not special like the Boss, or Hawkeye, or Fuery, Mustang still won't leave me behind. None of them will. And so I won't leave them behind, either._

_That clear up any questions you had about my priorities, Doc?_

Ravine winced as he finished Havoc's words. He stared for a second at his hands (hands not meant for guns, they'd told him). It was hard, so hard sometimes, to be the only average one standing in a room full of extraordinary people.

And yet, Havoc had smiled yesterday. Smiled and seemed happy just to be there, in their company.

Swallowing hard, Ravine turned to the next page, the one belonging to Master Sergeant Fuery.

_I suppose I should I write about the Colonel. He's done so much for me, after all, and really made me feel useful. I like that; feeling useful. But I think everyone knows when they look at our squad that we're loyal to him first. And there's a truth I have that goes deeper than that. A truth that I know the Colonel knows about, but he never teases me for, even though I know he doesn't agree. _

_I believe that everything will be okay. _

_Absolutely. _

_I believe that there is a way for the Colonel to reach his goal, and I believe that Havoc will find the woman of his dreams, and I believe that Hawkeye won't have to hide her feelings forever, and I believe that Falman will recover from being a shadow, and I believe that Breda will forgive his father, and I believe that Ed and Al will find what they're looking for. My futures are full of laughter, and happiness, and dreams fulfilled. And I know that none of them agree with me. They're realistic, and the Colonel and Ed in particular don't see their dreams fulfilled without blood being spilled as well. _

_But I don't believe that. Everything will be okay, everything will turn out all right in the end._

_I believe that._

_Because someone has to._

Ravine gaped a little at the loaded page. The Sergeant had barely said three sentences yesterday, and yet his words were the longest yet. And a part of him ached when he read it, because Ravine wasn't sure that he believed it either, and he could see why Mustang found it so necessary to keep someone around who did.

Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda was next, and while Fuery's words had been the longest, Breda's were the shortest yet.

_My father was an alchemist. I'm not. My father died fighting a war he didn't support, for a cause he didn't believe in._

_I've never forgiven him for dying so uselessly._

_I believe in the Colonel's cause. He keeps me around because my loyalty to the mission will never waver. I'll probably die before this is over, I've already accepted that._

_And when I look my father in the face again, I'll be able to look him in the eye and explain where he went wrong._

The fine trembling in Ravine's hands had spread to his shoulders now, jerking him forward in quick, neat shudders.

He'd had no idea.

It was in Breda's file, of course, that his father had died in the line of duty. But there had been no mention, not even the barest hint of color from the portrait Breda's words had painted. His father, an alchemist? Who had died during active service?

Ravine recalled Breda's smiling, snorting face from the day before, and shuddered once again.

Sickness boiled and burrowed like greasy fingers in his stomach as Ravine reached for the next page. Second to last, and with Edward Elric's name dashed across the top in a tight, angry scrawl.

_I don't want to read anymore_, Ravine thought, but duty pushed his eyes where his heart had no desire to go.

_It's my fault._

_I'm not telling you what, you jerk. That's private, and there are only so many hoops I'll jump through for a test this stupid. But that's what's important, that's what you wanted to know, right? My absolute truth, the thing that I know for certain is fact. And let me tell you, absolute truths are hard to come by, especially for me. Everything's so different now, and nothing's for sure, and every night is laying awake and staring at the ceiling and hoping that something will turn up soon because I owe him and we can't keep going on like this and he deserves better than this endless, awful waiting._

_Like I said, nothing's sure for me anymore. But I do have one thing that I know for certain._

_It's my fault. What happened, why it happened, how it happened. It's all my fault, and he'll tell you that it's not, and in a way, that makes it worse, because if he would just blame me then I could finally hurt like I'm supposed to, and stop feeling so damn guilty all the time, like I'm sneaking around in a life that should be his. It's the waiting, for the punishment that I know I deserve, but knowing he won't give it to me, but always waiting and always wondering why, because doesn't he see how bad I deserve it?_

_Shit. Shit. If you tell him this, if he ever finds out, I'll come after you, Doc, and I don't want to do that because you're decent, you seemed decent, and that's just as rare nowadays as sure things. _

_Whatever. It's my fault. I'll do anything to fix it. _

_That's my absolute truth; my only truth. And that's all you need to know._

Ravine shoved the paper away, nearly sliding it off his desk and to the floor, and pressed his fingers hard against his eyes. The sickness in his gut had mutated into something worse, something hot and ripping, a reaction spawned by the anger, the helplessness, and the desperation that he could hear so clearly, even though the words in front of him were only text. He evoked images of golden eyes, hard and tart like bitter berries

_So young_, Ravine thought, struggling to swallow around the heat in his throat.

One paper left, and Ravine could barley bring himself to look at it. But there were only two lines, penned so lazily that they might have been an afterthought, if not for the message they carried.

_I don't want them to mean more than the mission._

_But they do._

Ravine read the words once, twice, and then he thought of the other answers he'd read, and he smiled a little. He slid a palm over his face, fingers pressing against his burning eyes, and wondered if maybe they were the reason he wasn't right for a gun, and not his hands after all.

He didn't jump at the soft voice that intruded from the doorway. Because, really, after reading that final message, what did he expect?

"So. Are we an interesting read, Doctor?"

"Yes," Ravine replied, without moving his hand. "And infinitely more honest this time around."

He waited a moment before he slid his palm away.

"Colonel," he began. He gestured helplessly at the papers for a few moments, struggling against the secrets written there, and the danger contained in every word. Eventually he gave up, and could manage only; "Why?"

Mustang, who was standing straight and tall and unashamed in the entryway, shrugged. But the movement was like his message; lazy, but with so much more underneath.

"Because you gave us a second chance."

Wordlessly, Ravine stared at the Colonel, and then at the papers strewn about his desk.

"What will you do with them?" Mustang asked quietly.

It wasn't a casual question. Ravine could make his career on the ruination of these seven. In all their earnest words, they'd never tried to rally him to their cause, a cause that they'd never mentioned, but believed so fiercely in all the same.

He could do it, and for a second he hated himself for wanting it, for wanting to spit in the face of those who denied him a gun by getting his stars nonetheless.

But then he remembered Fuery's words, so surprising when one considered the other truly awful, and therefore more memorable, things he'd read.

_I believe that everything will be okay._

Ravine thought of golden eyes, hard and ancient, in a face so young. He thought of Havoc's contentment, and Breda's smile, and Falman's tightly closed mouth. He thought of Riza's eyes, always fixed on someone else, and Fuery's raised hand, so earnest, a single flag of clarity flying so alone.

And he thought of Mustang, standing in his open door, completely calm because he already knew he'd do whatever it took to protect them.

And the sickness swirled back, saddled now with an extra twist of shame.

"It isn't required that I show the results to the Fuhrer," Ravine said quietly. "Just that I inform him of your squad's satisfactory completion of the test."

And Mustang just nodded, like he'd never expected another answer.

He left without another word, and Ravine took the folder home with him that night. He fed the papers to his shredder, and watched the mechanical teeth devour every line of aching, desperate, shameful words.

He thought that was the end of it. But two weeks later, he brushed by Mustang in the corridor, and the man clapped a soft, friendly hand on his shoulder.

The touch felt like a welcome. Like a branding. It startled Ravine into standing stiff and straight.

Later, he saw Mustang do the same to his men, and only his men.

And he thought that the lingering warmth in his upper arm might have been a step towards finding his own absolute.

...

_A/N: This whole writing experience was so surreal. I look at it, and I still can't believe it came from me. I don't know if that's because it's good, or because I wrote in some sort of exhausted stupor. Hopefully it didn't disappoint! And yeah, I took a little liberty with Breda's background. He's such a one-dimensional character. I had to play with him a little. Watch for more updates, and Happy Reading!_


	23. Chapter 23

_A/N: Hi there, folks! This one is a special request from Bookwrm389. She was my 300th reviewer, and I offered to write a one-shot of her choosing in celebration. Hope this is what you were after, dear!_

_On that note: 300 REVIEWS? HOSHIT. You guys really have been so very kind to me. I love and appreciate all of you for the wonderful support and words of encouragement you've given me. Thank you, thank you so much!_

_PS: This story has a tiny bit of language stronger than what I've used before. We're all adults here, but its just a warning!  
_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**Changing Hands**

Edward Elric did not _obsess._

Occasionally, he indulged in a particular fixation with single-minded intensity, but only for academia's sake. He certainly didn't stalk and snarl until he had his answers. His curiosity was both perfectly normal, and healthily distributed.

And, damn it, if someone didn't explain the clear glass jar that had suddenly appeared on Mustang's desk seven days ago, his little prodigy brain was going to snap and swallow somebody whole.

It was just…such a _conundrum_. The bastard didn't do anything without a motive, and he certainly didn't clutter his precious desk unless absolutely necessary. And yet, when Ed had barged into his office one week ago to bang his latest mission report down on Mustang's desk, it had all but slapped him in the face. A simple jar, one used to pickle pears and house homemade jam, sitting pretty and innocent on the wood.

Unexpected.

Uncharacteristic.

And completely unexplained.

Mustang had watched as Ed's confusion sputtered him to a stop mid-sentence, and then leaned back in his chair with a record-breaking, bastard-patented smirk. He was well-acquainted with Ed's overly curious mind, and also very aware that the boy's pride would prevent him from ever asking for answer assistance from anyone, especially his commanding officer. So, he'd proceeded to kick back in his chair and completely and silently deny the anomaly's very existence, while simultaneously ignoring Ed's pointed scowls as he'd struggled to resume his report.

And, one week later, Ed was no closer to puzzling it out than before. And the bastard didn't even have the decency to tease him out loud every time he caught him scowling at it. Then, Ed could have blown up into a satisfactory rage, and subtly demanded answers through his ranting.

But no, Mustang avoided openly antagonizing him, for once. Instead, he just raised a single eyebrow (a skill that Ed would never, ever admit to trying to emulate in the bathroom mirror that one time), in a far more sneaky form of taunt.

_Haven't figured it out yet, Fullmetal? Pity. Oh, and on that note, how's that hunt for the Philosopher's Stone going?_

Ass.

He could have asked someone else. He'd spied Havoc, Breda, and even a shame-faced Fuery, dropping in a fistful of change at different intervals during the week. Clearly, they understood the jar, and its reason for existing. But Ed had absolutely no doubt that if he asked for help of any kind, Mustang would become aware of it approximately thirty seconds later.

And then he'd suffer not only the indignity of a single raised eyebrow, but the gloating, teeth-grinding weight of _two_.

But. He just couldn't _stand_ it. The stupid jar was slowly filling, silently mocking him with its unknown purpose, and he was no closer to figuring it out than before.

He snarled under his breath and stared down at the book he was completely failing to focus on.

He was an alchemist; a scientist.

He didn't believe in unanswerable questions.

He would work this problem to conclusion, and he damn well would do it with dignity and logic-like rationale.

….

"THIS! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!"

Mustang didn't even try to stop the smirk from spreading across his face. He'd wondered how long the boy would last. Although, maybe 'boy' wasn't a very accurate label anymore. Time was, Edward wouldn't have made it three _minutes_ with such an unattainable mystery in front of his face. Mustang never would have expected him to last an entire week of eyebrow-twitching, teeth-gnashing silence.

Ah, nostalgia. How fast they grow.

Although, at the moment, Edward much more closely resembled his twelve-year-old, hotheaded and spastic self than his current sixteen years. He had planted himself in front of Mustang's desk, legs spread wide, accusatory finger sliced dramatically in the little jar's direction. His eyebrow was twitching dangerously, and he was all but foaming at the mouth.

Mustang settled back in his chair with a contented sigh and prepared himself for a show of epic proportions.

"THIS DAMN…ABNORMALITY HAS BEEN SITTING ON YOUR DESK FOR A FULL WEEK, YOU BASTARD, AND NOT ONCE HAS ANYONE BOTHERED TO EXPLAIN IT TO ME!"

Edward's roar of rage successfully stopped all pretense of work in the outer office as every subordinate leaned in to listen. Mustang's smirk stretched.

"That'll be one dollar, Fullmetal."

Ed's knee-jerk insult response of just where Mustang could shove his dollar sputtered into something else entirely as the fury furrowed on his brow shifted to confusion.

"…What?"

"One dollar. Fifty cents for every swear. I didn't charge you for the 'Bastard', because I truly believe that you are incapable of calling me anything else, and it just wouldn't be fair to cripple your vocabulary."

Ed seemed to struggle with that information for a moment.

"This thing…is a swear jar?" he finally summarized. The rage returned full-force, accompanied by a healthy dose of scorn. "That's the _stupidest _thing I've ever heard."

"I'll be sure to tell Lieutenant Hawkeye that you disprove of her idea."

The blood drained from Edward's face so fast that Mustang had to choke back a snicker.

"Ah…," he said, after shooting a nervous glance at the open door. "No. Don't do that. I didn't mean…I just…Why didn't you tell me?"

Mustang batted his lashes behind his desk, the picture of perfect innocence.

"Well, Edward, the decision to consign to cleaning up your language is a terribly adult one."

The boy's brow furrowed even further.

"What d'you mean by that, you ass?"

"A dollar fifty, Fullmetal. And I, of course, mean absolutely nothing by it. I'm merely suggesting that perhaps you require a bit more…maturity in order to undergo such a serious commitment."

Ed's teeth were so tight that Mustang briefly wondered eventually they'd just shatter on his carpet from all the strain.

"_Maturity_? Listen, you jerk-"

"It's completely understandable," Mustang cut in smoothly. "You're only sixteen, after all. No one would be surprised if, without swearwords, your vocabulary became a bit…stunted."

"I am a goddamn _genius_, you bastard; my vocabulary has never been _stunted_," Ed rejoined instantly, and then his eyes widened. "AND WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SHORT HE CAN BARELY READ PICTURE BOOKS, YOU OVERLY SMUG _ASS_!_"_

"_Two_ dollars and fifty cents, Fullmetal. Keep it up," Mustang invited. "I've got a date tonight. I could use the spending money."

Ed's cheeks blushed red with rage. He struck some dramatic pose, throwing his arms up over his head like he was willing lightning to shoot from the sky and strike Mustang right in his stupid, manslut _head._

Mustang folded his hands under his chin, resisted a butt-wiggle of satisfaction, and prepared himself for the truly stunning.

"OH MY _GOD_ YOU ARE THE BIGGEST SLUTBOMB I HAVE EVER HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO MEET AND ONE OF THESE DAYS I AM GOING TO GRAB YOU BY THAT BITCH BOY HAIRCUT OF YOURS AND FIND A NICE BOULDER TO SMASH THAT GODAMN FACE OF YOURS INTO UNTIL YOU STOP. FUCKING. _TALKING_."

"That'll be four-fifty even, Fullmetal."

Ed's next outburst was nothing more than a garbled scream of frustrated rage. His hands curled into tight, dangerous fists, and Mustang briefly and calmly considered ducking under the desk. One never knew when Ed would manage to contain his anger, or just lose it completely and come ninja-hopping in his direction, alchemic power clapped and crashing.

"Ahem."

Mustang aborted his half-slouch down to safer levels at the sound of the perfectly polite throat-clearing. Hawkeye stood in the door, hands neatly folded.

"Major Elric," she said, and Ed read it for the warning shot it was. She only ever called him by his title when she was annoyed, but not quite enough to reach for her gun. "Is there a problem, sir?"

For a moment, Ed could only thrust an accusatory finger in Mustang's direction. Then, he realized how incredibly juvenile it looked, and let it wilt.

"He…," he let his accusation die too, after Riza's face went carefully, dangerously blank.

"Alphonse is looking for you, sir."

Screw courage in the face of fire. The Homunculi, for all their supernatural powers and built-in weaponry, had _nothing_ on a pissed off Hawkeye with a twitching finger trigger. Ed grabbed at the out like a lifeline.

"Ah! Right…Alphonse…I'll just-"

Hawkeye's voice, completely calm which was just so much _worse_, stopped him mid-slink.

"Edward."

His shoulders hunched. There was just something so…familiar about that tone. It was the one his mother had used that one time when he'd pelted Alphonse with a snowball and then turned around to see her oldest son standing with innocent eyes and his hands behind his back while the littler one wailed.

"Fine," Ed grumbled.

He spun on his heel and stomped back towards Mustang's desk. The man didn't bother to duck this time; he trusted his subordinate and her mysterious mommy powers (not to mention the firearm hanging from her waist) to keep him safe.

Ed buried an angry fist deep into his pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills. With a venomous glare at his smirking superior, he slapped them into the little jar, making it wobble dangerously on the desk. He then sailed out of the room without a backward glance, calling for Al and slamming the door at his back.

In the silence and safety of his subordinate's company, Mustang allowed himself one helpless snicker. Hawkeye unfolded her hands, and released a tiny sigh, her version of full-blown exasperation.

"Sir, do you have to tease him like that?"

Mustang quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Yes. What else would I do with me free time?"

The golden glare she shot him wilted him completely, much like it had to Ed's waving finger only moments before.

"Paperwork."

Mustang cleared his throat cautiously.

"Well." He poked at the jar on his desk with one gloved finger. "There's enough money here for a movie ticket, at least."

"Your date, sir?"

"Yeah." Mustang tried a small, wicked grin. "How about it, Hawkeye?"

She softened, just a little, just enough to warm her eyes to a sherry glow.

"Was that you asking me out, sir?"

"Yeah. Oh, are you after a real invitation?" he folded his fingers and dropped his chin on them. Patented Mustang smolder; it worked every time. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the movies tonight, Lieutenant?"

For a moment, she just looked at him, and he thought he'd romanced her beyond words. He was already patting himself on the back, when her soft smile curved into a dangerous smirk of her own.

"Sorry. I happen to be busy this evening. Some other time." She spun around and left him floundering. "I'd suggest you consult your little black book if you still desire company."

"_Damn_ it, Hawkeye."

She didn't even turn as she exited the office. Just tossed the words over her shoulder.

"That's fifty cents for the jar. Sir."

...

_A/N: Anyone have any ideas about what the title means? I think I'm terribly clever sometimes. Not often, but every once and a while. Hee._


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: This one was supposed to be sort of silly and fun. Sigh. Apparently I an incapable of writing for this fandom without adding at least a little bit of angst. Oh, well. It's Fullmetal Alchemist. So, I guess that's appropriate, right?_

_Many thanks, as ever, to my FANTABULOUS readers/reviewers. You guys rock my world!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or any of its characters.  
_

**Brands and Remembrances**

In retrospect, Ed would realize that everything was Havoc's fault.

Okay. Maybe not _everything_. Ed was willing to admit that maybe the lieutenant wasn't the cause of the dinosaur extinction. And he was almost ready to stop blaming the Dark Ages on his stupid ass.

But, really. Everything other than that. Every horrible thing ever. Totally traceable back to him.

Like the current situation.

Havoc wanted a tattoo. Apparently, he believed that the acquisition of skin ink would kick up his rating on the sexiness scale by six or seven notches.

And while the men of Mustang's squad had still been hopelessly awash in the seemingly endless sea of his utter and unbelievable stupidity, Havoc had taken advantage of their silence and recruited them all into accompanying him.

So, clearly, it was all Havoc's fault that Ed was currently cooling his heels in a seedy looking tattoo parlor in downtown Central on his first day off in weeks. He avoided making eye contact with a heavily inked man wearing a white shirt that read 'Bubba', and thought longingly of the books waiting for him back in the dormitories, and the answers that could be pressed inside their pages. He'd refused to accompany Havoc back into the actual art area (his rather limited amiability ran out at hand-holding), and so was now braving the untold dangers of the waiting room, which reeked of old cigarettes and sweat, and the ink-addicted that inhabited it. 'Bubba' had been with him from the beginning; Ed had almost completely adjusted to the dizzying designs stretched up and down his arms and shoulders. And a little while ago, a girl with more metal in her ears than one might find in steel refinery had wandered in and chatted with the man behind the counter for a bit. Her hair had been a bright bubblegum pink, and her black skirt had been decked out with silver chains. She'd snapped her gum at him in a thoughtful manner upon entering the room, and dropped him a wink out of one heavily lined eye before she left.

Ed had buried his blushing face behind a magazine and struggled not to think of Winry.

Back in the present, the sound of Havoc's manly wails floated down the corridor, accompanied by Breda's barks of laughter and Fuery's soothing voice, creating a bizarre sort of harmony with the mechanical whirring of the tattooist's needle. Sitting nervously beside his older brother on the sagging couch, Al made a soft sound of sympathy.

"It sounds bad. Doesn't it, Brother?" he asked, twisting his fingers anxiously.

"What, Al?" Ed asked distractedly. He was busy playing a sort of 'I Spy' game using the pictures in Bubba's arm tattoos.

"Havoc's tattoo," Al repeated. "It sounds like it's hurting him."

Ed snorted softly, squinting his golden eyes as he tried to determine whether the figure circling Bubba's wrist really was a dragon, or actually an elongated pickle.

"It was his choice, Al," he reminded him. "I'm not going to waste my time feeling sorry for his self-inflicted stupidity."

"I…guess."

For a moment, there was silence, and Ed let out a soundless 'aha' of triumph as he spotted a grinning skull with flames bursting from its eye sockets high on Bubba's shoulder. Then Al gave a little squirm against the sofa, and canted his metal head in Ed's direction.

"Um…Brother?"

Recognizing the difference in tone, Ed momentarily abandoned his perusal of Bubba's bicep.

"Yeah, Al," he invited, because it was rare to hear his baby brother's voice so hesitant and unsure outside of the presence of strangers.

"What…," Al folded her metal fingers with soft, metallic clinks. "What do you think it feels like? What Havoc's doing?"

The guilt was immediate, and it was incendiary. It burned its way through Ed's stomach, until his gut became a charred, hollow hole of _sorry, my fault, God, so sorry. _

"Getting a tattoo?" he asked hoarsely. "I…" Ed fumbled, because he was clearly incapable of describing the experience. "I don't know, Al."

"Oh," Al said, voice small, and Ed wanted to scream. Or die. It wasn't a huge comfort, being able to describe sensations that Al was slowly forgetting with words, but the Elrics still clung to it, because it was all they were currently capable of.

Being unable to perform even that small service, which really was the very least he could do for Al, made the gaping maw of guilt in Ed's stomach expand even further, the blackened edges of it pressing against his heart.

Al must have caught the bleak expression on his face, because his next words were spoken with deliberate and determined cheer.

"I'll just ask Havoc when he gets out. Don't worry about it, Brother!"

Ed's smile was weak, and thin. A mere shadow of the sunbeam bright grin he was capable of producing.

"Sure, Al. Okay."

But by the time Havoc stumbled back to the waiting room, looking more like he'd survived a war than received some simple skin graffiti, he was too busy weeping over his freshly punctured skin to be of much use, answer-wise. Ed and Al helped Falman drag him back to the dormitories, while Breda followed behind and repeatedly advised Havoc to 'man up, because really, you only got your rank identification on your wrist, and it's like four numbers, you _girl'. _By the time they got back to their own room, it was too late to ask, and Al actually seemed to have forgotten, too busy guiltily giggling over Breda's insults.

But Ed remembered. All night, he tossed and turned on his regulation dormitory bed, pretending to sleep as he replayed the sound of Al's voice in his brain over and over, sounding so soft and disappointed.

….

One week later showed back to business as usual for the soldiers of Mustang's squad. The late winter rain made the office atmosphere rather gloomy, and Havoc's continuous whining about his aching wrist was making even the ever-patient Riza's temple twitch, but Fuery was cheerfully banging away at a new military-issue camera prototype, which they hoped to test out on infiltration assignments, and Falman's face was calm as he filled out endless stacks of paperwork. Breda was lounging in his chair, a sandwich in one hand and a pen in the other as he scribbled down the details of his latest assignment, and Hawkeye, when she wasn't glaring warning daggers at Havoc, checked over some of the Colonel's more last minute forms with something like contentment on her face.

Even Ed had seemed unusually mellow when he'd entered the office. Well, mellow for him. He'd opened Mustang's door by hand and with the words; "Wake up, Colonel Bastard, I've got more crap for you to sign" instead of simply kicking the wood in with one automail foot. And Mustang had limited himself to a single lazy short joke, and it wasn't even a very good one, because humor loses its bite when you yawn in the middle of it.

Their exchange was sluggish by their standards, with only one or two shrieks of rage that really sounded more like whines of mild protest, and a single saucy remark connecting the rain outside to the general uselessness of fire alchemy, and even that was almost an afterthought. Ed couldn't pick up on more than three hidden meanings behind Mustang's words, a new record, and even the bastard's smirks were half-assed, as if the sound of the water on the window panes sapped the smugness out of them.

The rest of the squad was just as sluggish, but still unable to prevent themselves from commenting when Ed wandered out of Mustang's office after only one semi-enthusiastic explosion.

"Whoa," Havoc said around the cigarette in his mouth. "Feeling friendly today, Boss?"

"That's wonderful, Ed!" Fuery added earnestly, looking up with a warm smile from the piece of equipment cradled in his hands. "Are you and the Colonel finally getting along?"

Ed snorted and flopped lazily against the arm of an available chair.

"Hardly," he replied, with a jaw-cracking yawn and comfortable stretch. "Just too tired to let his bastard-levels get to me today."

"Rain often inspires feelings of lethargy and laziness," Falman offered, before returning to his paperwork with a satisfied nod.

"Thanks, Falman," Breda mumbled, his voice garbled by the fact that he'd settled his face into his desk with a weary sigh. "You freak."

"We've got some free time, Brother," Al pointed out, watching as his older sibling wriggled sleepily against the chair. "Do you want to do something? Maybe spar? I think the training gym is free."

"Margh," Ed answered. "Spar? I think I'd rather sleep, Al."

Havoc heaved himself out of his chair with great effort so as to properly deposit the reports he'd been working on in the correct cabinet. Hawkeye pretended she wasn't watching closely to make sure he did it right.

"Lack of motivation," he diagnosed. "That's the spirit, Boss. I didn't think you had it in you."

As he made his way back to his seat, he gave Ed's back a friendly slap. Ed immediately stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth.

Everyone in the office froze.

"Brother?" Al asked hesitantly, as Ed carefully wiped his face free of expression. "Are…are you all right?"

Ed gave Al a blank look that absolutely no one in the office believed.

"What do you mean, Al? I'm fine."

"I believe that your brother is referring to the fact that you just flinched from Havoc's touch," Hawkeye summarized softly. She met Edward's eyes with a stern, serious look. "Edward. Are you injured?"

"No," Ed answered, but it was too fast to be believable.

Al made a soft sound of distress and moved forward.

"You are, aren't you? Brother! I thought we talked about this. You said you weren't going to hide things from me anymore. You promised!"

Ed clenched his teeth together hard, and struggled to ignore the hurt and sadness in his baby brother's voice.

"Come on, Al," he muttered. "Knock it off. I'm not-"

Behind him, Havoc cocked a brow, and raised his hand again. Ed ducked back instinctively and danced carefully out of range.

"-Hurt," he finished lamely, now avoiding the eyes of everyone in the office.

"All right," Breda said, shoving himself to his feet. "Let's see it."

"What?" Ed asked, eyeing the lieutenant nervously.

"Your wound," Hawkeye elaborated from his other side. "We need to see it to assess what sort of attention it requires."

"Hey, listen," Ed began, only to be cut off by an overly-concerned Fuery.

"You can't just ignore it, Ed," he said pleadingly. "Is it an open wound? What if it gets infected?"

Flanked by the unbeatable walls of anxiety and worry for his own well-being, Ed could only raise his hands.

"Why would you guys just automatically assume that I'm hiding-"

"Remember that time, Fullmetal?" Mustang asked, from where he was now leaning against his office door, watching the scene with an unreadable expression. "That one time when you came in to give your report, and no one knew you were injured until you puked up blood all over my office floor? Remember that? And what was that ridiculous excuse you gave, when asked why hadn't sought medical attention? Oh, right. 'I didn't think it was a big deal'."

Ed winced. Mustang's voice was perfectly pleasant, and an outside observer might have thought that he was being kind. But Ed could read the barely masked rage in his eyes like a well-loved storybook.

"If you choose to get yourself killed out in the field, Fullmetal, then that's really none of my concern," Mustang continued dismissively, even as his eyes burned with accusatory anger. "But when you bring it in to my office, you force it to become my business. I'm rather fond of my rugs, Fullmetal. I'd rather you not die all over them."

"You are _such a bastard_," Ed breathed, and tensed when his baby brother grabbed his wrists in a hard, unshakeable fist.

"Show us, Brother," he said. "Please don't force us to find it."

"This is stupid," Ed snapped, the beginnings of a fine temper building behind his eyes.

"Wrong answer!" Havoc cheerfully replied, and began to pluck at Ed's coat.

Ed snarled and struggled against Al's hands, but Havoc continued to touch, undaunted. He stopped when his fingers pressed against a muscled shoulder blade, and Ed let out another soft, unintentional hiss.

"I think we have a winner," Breda observed. "Okay, then. Off with the jacket!"

"I am not _stripping_ in the middle of the office," Ed hissed, wriggling earnestly against the appendages restraining him.

Havoc grinned fiercely, his teeth digging groves into the cigarette they were clamped around.

"Embarrassed, Boss?" he asked. "We can ask Hawkeye to step out, if you want."

Ed blushed furiously as Riza's eyebrow rose majestically on her face.

"Oh, _screw you," _he snapped over his shoulder, right into Havoc's smirking face.

"Mm-hmm," Havoc agreed absently. "Grab his other arm, Breda."

Breda bounced cheerfully to Ed's side, and seized the boy's arm. Together, he and Havoc wrestled his wrists away from Al, and began forcibly tugging off his black jacket. His red one was already resting on the table across the room, where Ed had tossed it upon entering.

"Come on, Brother," Al pleaded, as Ed continued to struggle and snarl. "Just take it off!"

"E-excuse me."

The entire tableau froze. As one, they turned their heads towards the open office door, where a small, mousy-haired secretary stood, eyes wide and mouth agape, a stack of papers cradled in her hands.

Despite the situation, Ed almost laughed as he realized what she was looking at. Breda and Havoc were teamed up and obviously trying to remove his clothes. A giant suit of armor was hovering close by, urging him to just take it off. His superior officers, and Falman, were observing calmly from across the room.

Fuery was fluttering anxiously nearby, and that stupid camera was _still in his hands_.

The snicker lodged itself painfully in Ed's throat, and he could see by the answering humor in Havoc's face that he wasn't the only one who'd grasped the situation, and what it might have seemed like they were doing.

"Miss Marie," Riza said coolly, as if there was nothing strange about the current situation at all. "The forms sent by General Cain, I presume?"

Wordlessly, the girl nodded, her eyes still locked helplessly on the still stationary subordinates, frozen in the act of forcefully stripping the prodigy Major, in the middle of the office.

"You may place them on the center table," Hawkeye ordered in a voice that invited zero argument.

"R-right," Miss Marie stammered, her cheeks stained a bright, blossoming pink.

She dropped the forms on the table and fled so fast that the echo of her heels clicking down the hallways sounded like machine gun fire.

Mustang passed a weary hand over his eyes and shot Riza a reluctantly amused look.

"How long do you think I have before the child exploitation citation papers reach my desk?"

"The speed of Miss Marie's mouth is well known around base," Riza returned solemnly. "And her communications network is impressive. Two days, Sir, if that."

"Wonderful."

Havoc and Breda took advantage of the distraction, and wrestled Ed's coat down his arms, letting it bunch at his wrists.

"We've got a bandage," Breda reported, tapping a gentle finger against Ed's shoulder blade.

"Guys," Edward said, a bit desperately now. "Guys, wait. It's not what you think, really, it's okay-"

But Havoc was already peeling the adhesive off, and Al was peering worriedly over his brother's back.

There was a long, rather loud silence, during which Ed's face flamed a brilliant red.

"Well," Mustang prompted after a while. "What are we dealing with? Stab wound? Third degree burns? Is he going to bleed all over my carpet?"

But neither of his subordinates answered, because they were too busy gaping at Ed like they'd never seen anything quite like him.

"Brother," Al said, his voice hushed with confusion and wonder. "Is that-?"

"Yeah," Ed mumbled uncomfortably, his words aimed at the carpet he was studiously observing.

"W-what is it?" Fuery asked hesitantly, and his mouth was slack with the horrible possibilities he suddenly imagined marring Ed's back.

"Does it require attention?" Hawkeye asked, almost urgently, real alarm in her eyes at the sight of Havoc and Breda's faces so serious. "Should I call the infirmary?"

"No," Havoc replied, shaking his head emphatically. "No, it's…" But words seemed to fail him, and he fell silent.

"Edward?" Mustang asked, almost an order, and later Ed would realize that there was actual _concern _in the older man's voice.

Ed's blush brightened horribly. He rolled his eyes and, with a bad-tempered huff, shoved away the hands restraining him. They let him go without resistance this time, their limbs turned weak and limp as water. Ed crossed his arms and spun around, presenting his back to the room at large.

"There," he snapped. "See? I don't need a doctor. It's not a big deal."

No one spoke. Eyebrows were both raised, and scrunched in confusion. Mouths gaped, and Fuery let out a soft, involuntary sound of surprise.

On his back, right above his left shoulder blade, his skin was decorated with the words 'Memoria Noxia', carefully printed in beautiful, curling black ink.

"How did you even-?" Breda asked, and Ed shot him an angry, impatient look over his shoulder.

"They don't care. Once you flash enough gold, and your silver watch chain, they fall all over themselves trying to help you."

Wordlessly, Alphonse reached out one giant metal finger and pressed the tip of it carefully against his brother's back, right beneath the tattoo. The skin around the decorated section was still pink and slightly swollen, indicating its freshness.

"What does it mean?" Fuery asked, his voice forced to quite in the sudden stillness of the room.

"Memory," Mustang murmured, and his mouth curled with something that might have been sorrow, might have been sympathy. "Memory and fault."

"Brother?" Al whispered, and there was a dangerous hitch in his metal voice.

The look that Ed tossed Al was equal parts embarrassed and laid bare. He hurriedly snatched his coat from around his wrists and shrugged it back up his shoulders, forcing Al's fingers away, and closed it at his throat with an angry jerk.

"I got it so I could tell you what it feels like," he muttered, his voice surly and self-conscious. "But…But even though that was the reason, I still didn't want to get something that didn't mean anything."

"B-but Ed," Fuery asked, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. "'Fault'?"

Ed flinched a little, his back bowing underneath all the scrutiny, and his hands curled into tight, uncomfortable fists.

"We'll get our bodies back," he snapped defiantly at the floor, unable to meet anyone's eyes. "Eventually. Someday. _Soon. _And when we do, my reminders will be gone." He gave his prosthetic arm a tiny, indicative twitch. "But I can't afford to forget. Not ever again. I don't deserve to. So now, I'll carry the memory and the fault forever, even after the automail isn't there."

More silence, heavy with words unsaid. Ed finally lifted his flushing face.

"So, yeah." He lifted one rage-filled finger and drilled it towards Mustang's face. "Stop smirking, you stupid bastard!" It wasn't an accurate accusation, there wasn't even the hint of a smirk on Mustang's face, but Ed made it anyway, because a smirk would have flustered him less than the faint approval burning in Mustang's eyes. That look implied that Mustang knew exactly what Ed's tattoo was, that he recognized it; the boy had branded himself, taken his guilt and had it stamped on his back in blood and ink so that he would be forced to carry it forever. Ed didn't want relief, didn't want salvation, not from this failure, and Mustang was maybe the only one in the room who actually understood.

Ed skipped right over Hawkeye's tiny smile, because it didn't do anything to help his blood-filled face, and refused to acknowledge the fact that Fuery's lower lip was trembling suspiciously. He turned to Breda instead, because the shock and awe in his eyes was slightly easier to swallow.

"The next time you try to strip me in the middle of the office, I will _transmute you into a tree_. An _ugly tree_. Got it?"

Wordlessly, Breda nodded. Head high, eyes blazing and defiant, Ed finally turned and started to stomp from the room.

"And it didn't hurt that bad, you wimp!" He tossed over his shoulder, in Havoc's general direction. "Gah, I swear. _All your fault_!"

The silence amongst Edward's subordinates, and his superior, was a lasting one. Even after Al raced out after his brother, both laughter and tears trembling in his voice as he demanded to know how it had felt, and how long it had taken, and if there was anything he could do to make it feel better, it lingered.

Along with the tiny smiles that helplessly curved the remaining six sets of lips.

...

_A/N: Written to celebrate my own recent skin ink acquisition. Hee. Also, don't attack me if the Latin terms are wrong. I got them from a website, so reliability is sketch at best. _


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: I am a failboat, watch me flail. Sorry guys; I absolutely suck for taking so long to get this out. Life has been way crazier than it has any right to be. If someone could find a way to make it so that I could live on writing fanfiction alone, I'd greatly appreciate it. But, the insanity is almost over, so keep an eye out for both "Asylum" and "Remember When" updates (soon, like, 'hopefully within a few days' soon). I love you all so terribly much, and thank you greatly for the awesome amount of support you've shown me (OVER 400 REVIEWS? what. WHAT.). _

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist; no money is being made from the writing of this story.  
_

**Best Served Cold**

Fullmetal wasn't speaking to him.

This was unusual. Normally, Roy wouldn't have minded. At all. In fact, he'd have gloried in the silence that followed the lack of Edward's open mouth, rolling in it like a lazy cat might flop about in a sunbeam.

But he'd learned a long time ago that Edward was only quiet when something was wrong. That time that he'd blown up the government building in the West, he'd been as soft and silent as an angel upon delivering his report. And the only sound he'd offered after returning from a mission about a year ago with busted ribs and several layers of skin scraped off of his side had been the thunk of his face meeting the unforgiving floor.

So. As much as Mustang enjoyed the blissful quiet of his office, practically nonexistent whenever the boy was on base, he figured he'd probably better find out what Fullmetal had broken before he got a court martial or something.

He summoned Edward to his office around noon. The boy wasn't limping, or strategically cupping any appendages, so if he was hurt and trying to hide it, his acting skills had greatly improved. And he was scowling right into Roy's face, instead of peeling paint from the innocent office walls with his eyes, like that time he'd decimated the government building. This left Roy out of options as to where to begin his questioning.

Oh, to hell with it. Riza had been brutal with paperwork today, actually requiring him to finish it twenty minutes before it was due. Therefore, he was too sleepy to try for tact.

"All right. What'd you do?"

Edward's scowl darkened, and his eyebrow lifted in silent inquiry. Roy yawned, and tipped back in his chair.

"You've been slinking around the office for two days now, and I haven't seen you speak to anybody. That mouth of yours is only ever shut when you're hiding something." Roy tossed his head impatiently when the boy still refused to speak. "I'm not an idiot, Fullmetal."

Ed managed to mock Mustang's intelligence, alchemic ability, entire ancestry, and perhaps even his taste in clothing simply by raising his second eyebrow to join the first. Roy gave his fingers a wistful glance, mourning that fact that Hawkeye would probably shoot him if he tried for even one little snap.

"No, seriously," he said, folding his hands together firmly so as to avoid temptation. The boy would make such a decorative blob on his carpet. "If I need to start calling in favors or something, I'd like to know now. Smarming takes time, you know."

Edward rolled his eyes.

Silently.

Roy's teeth ground together hard.

"Are you injured?" he forced through his clenched appendages. "Do I need to get Alphonse to look you over?"

Ed's eyes widened the barest bit, and he shook his head definitively, tossing a half-panicked glance over his shoulder, as if to reassure himself that his overprotective baby brother wasn't _actually _standing there, ready to radiate doom and disappointment as he patted Ed down for injuries.

"Fullmetal," Mustang barked, putting on his 'I am your commander, whether you like it or not, and even though I'm a total bastard most of the time, you actually have to listen to me when I talk like this' voice. "Whatever damage you've done, the State needs to know about it. The military is responsible for your actions; if repairs or apologies need to be made, we have to move decisively." Despite his mounting frustration, Mustang still managed a smirk. "Besides, with your track record, I'm sure no one will really be surprised by whatever building you've managed to flatten this time."

Edward hissed at him. He didn't speak, but it was a start.

Looks like Roy would have to bring out the big guns.

"Don't worry, Edward," he purred, because he knew the kid hated it. "I'm sure everyone will still think…highly…of you, no matter what you've done."

Murder flared in the boy's golden face, very briefly, before he bit his tongue and forced it back. But for one bone-chilling moment, Mustang could read his own death in Edward's eyes. It would be bloody. And gruesome. Edward would laugh over his mutilated corpse.

And possibly there would be a giant stick involved.

But Mustang hadn't survived Ishbal (and Hawkeye….and _Hughes_) just to be intimidated by a teenager. So, he pressed on, like the battle-hardened soldier that he was.

"I mean, honestly, Fullmetal. We just celebrated your fifteenth birthday, right? Had a cake and everything. Don't you think it's still a bit childish to stop speaking just to hide a mistake? It's not very _big_ of you, Edward."

The boy's eye twitched, so violently that Mustang momentarily worried about his head exploding all over the office (which would just _suck_…Roy was fond of that rug). But still, nothing.

Mustang narrowed his eyes at the silently offered challenge, and blasted subtlety into oblivion.

"You're short," he said bluntly. "Tiny. I can barely see your head over the edge of my desk. You're so small that you look like a ping-pong ball bouncing around the office. The chambers on Hawkeye's gun have more substance than you. In fact-"

Edward released a high, whistling sound between his teeth that caused Fuery in the outer office to ask if someone was making tea. He stomped across the floor and shoved his face across Mustang's desk, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

"Shut. _Up. _You. Complete. _Bastard_."

The words were softly spoken, an implied death threat delivered via almost-whisper. They were still words, though, and Roy should have welcomed the victory.

But, rocked back in his chair, mouth slack from shock, Mustang could only _boggle._

Because Edward's voice had cracked in the middle of his heated warning.

_Cracked_.

And judging by the traumatized flush now staining the boy's cheeks, he was aware that Roy had heard it.

There was a moment of heavy silence, in which Ed appreciated the perfect horror of the situation, and Mustang just _appreciated. _

And then, his eyebrows twitched. His mouth twisted into something frantically tight, effectively giving him a sour lemon expression. His hands gripped the arms of his chair like they were lifelines.

"Well," he said, and never had Mustang's voice sounded so thin, so desperately _restrained_.

"I _hate_ you," Ed declared. Squeakily.

Mustang's fingers trembled dangerously on the arms of his chair. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. His began holding his breath out of sheer desperation, and his face slowly turned red.

"Tch," Ed snarled disgustedly, and banged his way out of the office.

The door had barely swung shut behind him, before the explosion hit.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAOHMY_GOD_. _BEST DAY OF MY LIFE_."

Ed couldn't answer when the others asked what was wrong, of course. He could only grumble, and blush, and swear by everything alchemically holy that he would kick that bastard in the _balls_ someday.

….

After that, Roy made it his personal mission to monitor the progress of Edward's puberty. When he called the boy down to his office two days after the _incident_, to give him his latest mission, he bestowed upon him his biggest, most bastardly smirk, and gestured to the serving tray he'd had brought up from the Mess.

Edward regarded it warily, and narrowed eyes that promised retribution for any pranks played in Mustang's direction.

"Tea, Fullmetal?" Mustang asked, and fought down the snicker out of sheer force of will. "I hear it does wonders for irritable throats."

Edward was up and over the desk almost before Mustang had finished speaking, blue light flashing and brandishing an automail blade made of _revenge_. Roy might have been able to better defend himself, if not for the fact that Fullmetal's manly roar of rage kept crackling and cutting out, and occasionally rising to a pitch that rivaled Schiezka's shrieks of joy when presented with a new book.

Because of this, Roy spent the majority of the scuffle rolling away from Edward's fist, laughing so hard and so loud his ribs ached. It was _funny_, so funny that he staggered and slumped like a Saturday drunk, positively howling. A brutal death on his part had probably only been avoided by the sound of Riza's gun being cocked so sweetly from the doorway to the outer office.

"No decapitating the Colonel, Edward."

"Fine," the boy grumped, albeit quietly, so that Riza couldn't hear his unsteady voice, and retracted his blade with an almost-pout.

Hawkeye handed Edward his mission report in Mustang's stead, and the boy banged out of the office, taking his bad temper out on the door as he went. Roy stayed exactly where he was, sprawled almost spread-eagle on the carpet, and basked in the warm glow of how _wonderful_ life had become.

….

Six weeks later, when Edward finally returned from his mission, Mustang was waiting for him. The squeakiness of the boy's voice had mostly abated, much to Mustang's chagrin, however, occasionally it would still crack beautifully in the middle of a sentence, bringing a bright smile to Mustang's lips.

"I'm glad to see that the mission was successful," he said, as the boy scuffed at the carpet with one foul-tempered foot.

"Yeah, whatever," Edward snapped, carefully modulating his voice to control the grating squeaks as much as possible. "More credit for you, Colonel Bastard. Can I go? Al's waiting for me."

Mustang cupped his chin in him palm and cocked an eyebrow, amused and slow and devastating.

"Not quite yet, Fullmetal," he ordered. "Something was brought to my attention while you were away. It seems there was some training left out back when you did basics. Something essential to your success as a soldier."

Ed's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Basics?" he repeated. "Bastard, that was years ago. They're just realizing now that they forgot to teach me something?"

Mustang lifted his shoulders in an elegant shrug.

"Hrmph," Ed grunted, annoyance heating his golden eyes. "Well, how are they going to catch me up, then? I thought I wasn't allowed back after…yeah. After what happened."

Both Edward and Mustang took a moment to wince over the rather painful memory of Ed's basic training.

"I'm aware of that, Fullmetal," Mustang remarked, shaking off the dark recollections with a shudder. "And because of that circumstance, I've gone ahead and made alternative arrangements. Your trainer will be waiting in the General Business Office after we conclude our meeting."

Ed sighed and cast a harried glance at the clock ticking away on the wall.

"Are we about done, then?" he asked. "I'd rather get this over with. I've got better things to do with my time than sit through basic training lectures that they forgot about in the first place."

"Sounds reasonable," Mustang agreed, and if Ed hadn't just returned from a mission and still been tired from traveling, he might have regarded the older man's affable tone with more suspicion. "Dismissed, Fullmetal."

Ed nodded, and made his way toward the door. Mustang waited ten minutes, the amount of time it would take his subordinate to reach the General Business Office, and then prowled out of his office, sporting a huge smirk and cheerfully ignoring the laser darts of disappointment Hawkeye shot from her eyes and aimed at the back of his head.

He camped outside the General Business Office door, even though it was unnecessary. He could hear Edward and his 'tutor' halfway down the hall.

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME, YOU OVERLY MUSCLED FREAK!"

"Don't be shy, Edward Elric! Learning about the joys of copulation is a beautiful thing! It signifies your growth from a delicate young boy into a roaring, dynamic lion of an adolescent, full of vigor and loins quivering with the desire to-"

"DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE. _DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE_."

"So bashful, Edward! How do you expect to overwhelm your intended mate with your manly charms if you can't overcome your embarrassment? Come! We shall practice! I shall play the part of your delicate maiden, ready to swoon into your reaching arms as you woo me with your bold intentions to-"

"I WILL PUNCH YOU IN THE THROAT."

"Hmm. My earnest efforts don't appear to be reaching you. Perhaps a new approach? Look, Edward! These artistically drawn diagrams have been passed down the Armstrong line for generations! See how the detail the full pride and vitality of a young man's-"

"URK. GACK. JUST. I DON'T EVEN… MUSTANG, I'M GOING TO _MURDER YOU_!"

The sheer satisfaction kept Mustang buzzing for _weeks_.

….

Edward hid in his room for days after Armstrong's enforced sex talk. According to Alphonse, the teenager had walked in after his session, as white as paper and eyes wide and bruised, as if he'd just been forced to witness every horror the world had to offer. Apparently, he'd whispered something along the lines of; "Al…Al…my brain has been _violated_", before curling up on his dormitory bed and staying there for at least forty-eight hours.

Mustang took pity on him, and gave him a long mission, at least two months away from headquarters. Realistically, Mustang knew they wouldn't be back for three or four, considering he'd strategically assigned their missions in areas rich with clues related to the Philosopher's Stone.

Ed sent Al to retrieve the assignment folder instead; Mustang was disappointed, but used his newfound memories of Armstrong's booming voice and Edward's terrified shrieks to tide him over.

When Edward next stomped into his office, a quarter of a year later, Mustang noticed that the boy had actually _grown_, certainly no more than three or four inches, but for Edward, that was a _really big deal_. His shoulders were a touch wider, too, his waist and hips more tapered. His weight hadn't caught up with his sudden surge (such as it was) in height, however, and the kid looked like someone had been starving him.

Still, it was really strange to see those cheeks hollowed, instead of childishly round.

"Sorry we're late," Edward said, and a smirk of his own stretched his face. "We had to stop in Resimbool for new automail. I guess I grew out of my old ones."

Mustang (who still topped Ed by at least nine inches) manfully muffled a chuckle (and shot a quick glance at Hawkeye, who was hovering in the doorway, to see if she was impressed with his maturity, only to scowl when she rolled her eyes at him) and settled for an indulgent smile instead.

"I see that," he acknowledged. "But tell me, Fullmetal. Does Miss Rockbell have an aversion to _feeding _you? If my superior officers see you in this state, they're going to court martial me for neglecting the health of a subordinate."

Ed's face flamed, and he crossed his suddenly gangly limbs with a furious scowl.

"Gah, shut _up,_" he snapped. "You're such a jerk."

"Mmm. You know, it really is fascinating, Fullmetal. I had no idea that limbs could _gangle_ while simultaneously being so sho-"

"You wouldn't happen to have another mission, would you, Colonel?" Alphonse Elric said with almost-hysteria, as his huge metal arms caught his older brother mid-ragetastic tackle leap.

"Yes," Hawkeye agreed. "Perhaps assigning the Major another mission would be beneficial, Sir." He caught the flash of her finger as it caressed the trigger of her favorite gun, and correctly interpreted her statement as 'By suggesting that you send Edward away on another mission, I am actually _ordering _you two apart before I shoot the both of you for your stupidity. Prison orange just isn't my color, but I'll wear it if I damn well have to'.

"Fine," Roy relented, and had he been a lesser man, he might have sulked over the ruination of his latest 'Edward Elric Puberty Extravaganza' scheme, spoiled before it had even started. Havoc was going to be _so _disappointed; Roy's order to take the boy to a bar and help him scope out women had filled with Lieutenant with near maniacal glee.

Mustang dipped a hand into the nest of folders on his desk, and reluctantly retracted an assignment stationed far away in the North, and containing at least a month's worth of work.

"Dismissed, then, Fullmetal," Roy said with a sigh, and banished the almost-pout before it could crease his lips.

Edward snatched at the folder like it held the secrets to the Philosopher Stone itself, and booked it out the door, Alphonse hot on his heels.

"Mean," Roy accused, as soon as it was just him and Riza standing in his office.

Hawkeye said nothing in return, only cocked a condemning eyebrow full of _significance_ at the paper pile he'd just had his hand in, before wandering out the room.

….

Edward came back much faster that Mustang had anticipated, considering that the kid took extra time just to be a pain in the ass on _normal_ occasions, never mind when he was trying to hide the embarrassing shifts in his body from his superior. Because it had only been five weeks, and Mustang hadn't been expecting him for at least seven, he hadn't had time to concoct a new scheme, and indeed, had a date scheduled for shortly after Edward wandered into his office, still bundled in the extra thick clothes that helped ward off the chill of the north.

"Got your report, Colonel Bastard," Ed announced, and Mustang was disappointed to hear that the boy's voice had smoothened out even further, dipping even lower into the smooth baritone his scratchy kid's voice had always hinted at.

"Fullmetal," Mustang greeted, gathering the folder Ed had tossed at him in his hands. His smirk curled, a suggestion. "How are you _feeling_?"

Ed rolled his eyes.

"Jerk. Fine. Grew another inch. So there."

"Mm. Only five more, Fullmetal, and we'll finally be in the same number range."

Edward scowled. Mustang heaved a satisfied sigh.

"As much as I'd love to have a chat and catch up, Edward, I do have a date in an hour." He only preened a little bit, and only because he could. "So I'm afraid we'll have to save the pleasantries for another time. I do like to be prompt in picking up my companions."

Ed muttered something along the lines of; 'Prompt…whatever…my foot will promptly meet your _face_' that Mustang didn't catch the entirety of, before adding in a normal volume of voice; "Whatever. Like I want to talk to you, anyway. Try not to give your girl rabies tonight, Bastard."

Mustang smirked. Ed wandered out of the office, pausing only to say hello to Hawkeye. When the woman caught his eye and started in his direction, Mustang committed himself to appearing busy. She'd never let him leave if he didn't at least try to look productive.

"Did you need something, Lieutenant?" he asked as she crossed the threshold from the outer office. "I'm busy."

"I see that, Sir," she informed him dryly. "I just wanted to inform you that your date, Miss Burgundy, called. Apparently, she found a ride, and so she'll be meeting you here instead of you picking her up."

Mustang tapped his pen absently against his mouth as he considered this. It was nice in that it meant less driving for him. On the other hand, it also meant he had more time to finish the papers on his desk.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he sighed. "I'll expect her within the hour, then."

"Very good, Sir."

Mustang resigned himself to taking his date out with cramped fingers and tired eyes as he diligently worked on providing his signature. By the time the hour rolled around, the stack of his desk was seriously diminished, and even Riza looked mildly pleased.

"Enjoy your evening, Sir," she offered, stepping discretely back into his inner office as Roy's latest girlfriend floated through the door.

She was a pretty thing, young and sweet with thick auburn hair and bright green eyes. She wasn't much in the brains department (and when asked about firearms, wondered what birds had to do with the conversation), but Roy wasn't looking for much outside of an appealing face to take to dinner.

"Are you ready, Roy?" she asked, her smile shy and soft as she beamed those bright eyes in his direction.

"For you?" Roy answered, crossing the room to take her arm and loop it gently through his. "Always."

Burgundy gave a pleased little sigh and blushed. Mustang smiled, ready to escort her out the door, but it blew open before he could touch it.

A _stranger _crossed the threshold, despite the fact that Mustang had known his face for years. In place of the child he'd been expecting, a rather good-looking and uncomfortably _grown up_ young man entered the room, shaking back his suddenly luxurious waterfall of golden hair.

He'd tricked him, the _brat_. Coming in all bundled up in those bulky clothes; he'd hidden his fuller form from Mustang's knowledge. The gangly arms and awkward limbs weren't gone completely, but Edward had filled out enough to make it seem lithe, instead of lanky. His cheeks were still hollowed, but the sudden presence of a _manly aura_ made it seem romantically slender instead of hopelessly skinny. The kid's shoulders were even wider, and his arms, which had always been toned from his years of kicking ass and taking names, suddenly seemed ruggedly rough and roped with muscle. Gone was the youthful braid, instead the brat had pulled his hair back into a sophisticated tail, that fell over one shoulder like a fishing lure spun out of golden silk, ready to draw in unsuspecting prey. The kid was wearing regular boots, instead of those stupidly clunky elevator shoes, and a plain white T-shirt tucked into his belt in order to emphasize his trim waist. The leather pants remained, though, and Mustang could have cried as he realized that Edward, who was as fashion forward as a hoop skirt, must have had help in this most dastardly of schemes.

"Oh, hello," Edward said, and damned if the kid's voice wasn't suddenly a rough, purring baritone that uncomfortably resembled Roy's. "Sorry to interrupt."

Burgundy gaped at the young man like a landed trout, her green eyes traveling over the bright blonde hair, the fierce and exotic golden eyes, and the compact body packed tightly into pants that appeared painted on.

_Oh, I hate you, Ed, oh yes I do._

"I'm Edward Elric," the boy said, stepping forward and offering his hand to the shell-shocked young woman. "One of the Colonel's subordinates. You must be the girl I've heard so much about."

The smirk that Ed tossed over Burgundy's shoulder, the one aimed in Roy's direction, clearly translated to; _Well, one of them, anyway_.

"Bwuh," Burgundy offered intelligently.

If Roy had cared a little less about his dignity, he might have flailed in anger over Fullmetal's apparent ability to make a woman incoherent, a trait he alone prided himself on possessing. But he was Roy Mustang, future Fuhrer of Amestris, and Fuhrer's didn't _flail. _At least, not in front of polite company. In his head, Roy executed a full-body rumba, while maintaining his perfect posture in the physical realm.

"I'm really sorry about butting in," Ed said with a short, sheepish laugh, and rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand. Because, Roy observed with silent, seething fury, he was still holding on to Burgundy with his left. "But I just wanted to check in with the Colonel before I left. Make sure he didn't need anything."

_You are a lying liar that lies._

"Need anything?" Burgundy repeated, and the breathless quality of her voice suggested that she hadn't meant it as a restatement of Edward's words, but rather, chock full of her own suggestions.

"Yeah," Edward said, as if he hadn't understood. "He's just…he's getting old, you know? Running himself down. Who knows how much longer he'll even be able to keep up this whole romantic routine? I'm just helping him to prolong it, while I can."

Mustang's jaw promptly unhinged from his face and landed on his boots.

"Look, doesn't he look tired?" Ed whispered, pointing in his direction. Burgundy nodded without glancing back, and Ed offered his arm. "Let's give him a minute to get back on his feet. It didn't seem like a long day to me, but then again, I'm just so young and vivacious, how do I know what the passage of time feels like to older people?" As Roy made some sort of gurgling noise, a noise his date didn't even appear to hear, Edward escorted her to the door. "Come on. I'll show you to the bathroom, and you can powder your nose while you wait for him to recuperate."

"Bwee," Burgundy agreed, and allowed him to tug her out of the room.

The heavy-lidded, smirk-curled look of satisfaction that Edward tossed over his shoulder just before the door shut had Mustang's flopped jaw snapping shut so fast it gnashed his teeth.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence as Mustang's brain struggled frantically to catch up with the situation. And then, he spun towards the back of the room, accusatory finger slicing the air dramatically.

"Oh, _Lieutenant_," he said mournfully, absolutely crushed by her betrayal.

Hawkeye didn't appear impressed by his heartbroken display; indeed, she seemed rather bored by it.

"You really did bring it upon yourself, Sir," she offered placidly.

"_How could you."_

"You teased Edward for months," she pointed out.

"_Wronged by my most trusted subordinate."_

"I do hope Edward doesn't hit her, or something," Riza mused thoughtfully, apparently resigning herself to ignore her boss altogether. "He's pretty rough-mannered. I could only coach him so much on what to say and how to act in such a short amount of time."

Roy made a noise like a watermelon hitting concrete, and face-planted on the office floor.

...

_A/N...Because you know what they say about revenge. Hee. Oh, and for those of you who are interested, there was a lot of questions about my tattoo. To satisfy your curiosity, I got a cross on my lower stomach/upper hip. Good times. Keep an eye out for those updates, and Happy Reading!_


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Okay. Ouch. This is a little deeper than I ever wanted to delve into the psyche's of Mustang's squad. But it had to be done. One of my more mentally exhausting chapters; I literally had to shut it down and walk away more than once. But, I still really like the way it turned out, so I hope you guys enjoy as well! Thanks, as always, to my fantastic readers and reviewers. You guys make beating my head against writing walls like these so totally worth it._

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, and am making zero money from this story. _

**Night Terrors**

The air around Central Command was as black as pitch, and still and soft in the way that only unified sleeping silence could bring. Unranked soldiers slept in regulation dormitory beds, and dreamed of the day that they'd earn the stripes on their uniforms. Generals snuggled down in feather-soft beds in their luxurious townhouses, and drifted on satisfying thoughts of power and ambition. All around, the air was mellow and mild, and free from the ringing interruption of voices. But some beds were not so serene.

Central Command may have been home to many officers, both ranked and otherwise, as well as the subordinates that followed them, but only one unit was unique in that none of its members found easy or restful sleep.

For the eight members of Colonel Roy Mustang's squad, the restorative properties of slumber were lost to sweaty fists tangled in twisted sheets, and desperate images behind close eyelids that could only be banished by the abdication of the bed entirely.

…...

_Fuery dreams of silence, and separation, where there should be conversation and connection. He dreams of a familiar office painted in shades of hard and gunmetal gray, instead of the bright liveliness it usually emits. He sees himself opening the door to air that feels heavy and oppressive on his shoulders, dragging him down with a weight he doesn't yet understand. The absence of sound, especially from this office, is strange and almost terrifying. There is no friendly banter coming from Breda and Havoc's corner. Instead, the two sit apart from each other, their chairs facing opposite directions. Breda's face is sad, and strangely empty without the wide smile there to decorate it, but it's Havoc's face that is impossible to look at. The loneliness is there in Breda's eyes, but it's all over __Havoc's features, crushing and crumpling until Fuery is forced to release a silent gasp of pain for his sake. It's what he never wanted and has always feared for Havoc; that he'll end up alone. These connections are necessary for Havoc, vital, a point illustrated by not only the pain, but the sense of worthlessness and confusion now painting his face. He doesn't understand why he's been left so alone, and can only conclude that it's because he wasn't worth keeping. _

_ Fuery wants to reach for him, to touch his arms and maybe that twisted face and shout that he's here, he's always here, and Havoc isn't alone. He wants to push Havoc towards Breda and show them both that there's someone else here. But his hands are blocked by something unseen. He can only move on, the memory of Havoc's ravaged eyes and Breda's sad face a constant burn on his back._

_ He almost misses Falman; the man is perched on a chair in the very corner of the room, completely alone. His body is loose and unstressed, and Fuery believes for one hopeful moment that its because Falman is indeed relaxed and untouched by the gray atmosphere. But then his eyes hit Falman's face, and a silent scream pushes itself from between his lips on a soft puff of air. There's nothing in Falman's eyes, nothing at all, and because this is his dream, Fuery knows exactly why. Falman's so used to being the silent one, the quiet one that others are capable of forgetting. This is the end result of that; he's been transparent for so long that everything that makes him Falman has been crushed by the eyes that always slid over him. _

_ Fuery tries to reach for him, to shake his shoulders until a snap of that hardly seen dry humor and super organized voice returns to his eyes. But his hands are blocked once again, and tears of frustration prick his eyes. _

_ He moves on, towards the door of the inner office. The silence is starting to sound more like a scream; it's hurting Fuery's ears. _

_ Inside the Colonel's office, Hawkeye and Mustang are seated side by side. She's watching him work on a stack of official documents, and it's so normal that Fuery hopes once again that nothing is wrong with this set of friends. But it's the lieutenant's shoulders that first shatter this optimism. Hawkeye's spine, normally so straight and respectful, is rounded with something that looks like defeat. Her shoulders are slumped, and her hands are resting listlessly in her lap. Her eyes are as close to begging as Fuery has ever seen from her, as she offers desperate, wordless pleas. But Mustang isn't looking at her, never turns in her direction, and the pleading on her face dissolves into such silent, obvious agony that the tears that had only sparked in Fuery's eyes up until this point brim and spill over. _

_ Mustang's hands are moving swiftly, efficiently, over his paperwork, but the misery on his face makes it perfectly apparent that he knows exactly what he's ignoring as he signs his name and furthers his ambitions instead. It's a kind of breaking that Fuery never wanted to see on the face of a man so strong and sure, like he knows the sacrifices he's making even as he gives them away. _

_ Fuery stumbles back from the desk without trying to reach for them; even if he wanted to, Mustang refuses to see Hawkeye even outside of nightmares and Fuery has no idea how to make him. He staggers a few steps to the side, and almost trips over the Elric brothers. _

_ They're kneeling on the office carpet, with space in between them, and even if Fuery was unable to see the rest of the scene, that alone would break his heart. Those boys should be together, always, because they're all each other has left. Apparently, they agree, because they're reaching for each other, palms outstretched. But whatever force has been stopping Fuery's hands for the entirety of this horrible experience is apparently still at work, because they can't seem to touch each other. They're straining, and Fuery can see the monstrous effort they're putting into trying to connect, but the gap can't be bridged._

_ Alphonse's metal face betrays nothing, of course, but Fuery can almost feel the despair radiating from those softly glowing eyes. He imagines that if armor could cry, Alphonse would be in weeping freely, tears rusting the metal of his faceplate. He wants to grab that iron wrist, even though he knows Al won't be able to feel it, and help him push through the barrier. _

_ It's Ed's face that finally drops Fuery to his knees. So much solitude and the pain it brings during this experience, but Ed's is so much more, so tangible that Fuery finally understands why the air seems heavy. Ed's eyes are barren of his usual intelligence, his bright and sparking personality. Everything has been stripped away other than the need to reach his brother, now, immediately, and the rage and fear that accompanies his inability to do so. His fist is dripping dark gray blood as he beats it against the barrier without reason or restraint, and that young mouth that Fuery has seen brighten into a smile and twist into a smirk is pulled back into a ferocious snarl. It hurts to see Ed so wild, so abandoned by the intellect that he prides himself on._

_ Fuery rocks on his knees, knows both that there are tears on his face and that he is helpless to stop them, and pleads with himself to wake up, to find his words, to leave this silent world of possible futures behind._

…_..._

_ When Breda dreams, the uniform that he is wearing is not his own. It fits well enough, a little large around the shoulders maybe, but it's not his. He knows this, because the fabric and the cut of it are old standard-issue, the uniform given to the soldiers of two decades ago. But just because it's old doesn't mean it's unfamiliar. Breda recognizes it almost immediately._

_ His father's uniform. He's wearing his father's uniform, and he knows that the heavy weight in his pocket is a silver watch. _

_ It's not in good condition, not like when his father must have worn it. There are rips in the fabric, scrapes and holes that Breda has memorized because of the hours he's spent holding on to the uniform and wishing he could hold his father instead. They washed the blood out before they gave the uniform back to his mother, but it doesn't change the fact that his father died in this outfit, died from a bullet to the chest delivered by an enemy he didn't even want to fight. _

_ But in his nightmares, Breda wears it, and understands that it feels loose around his shoulders because in many ways, he's still just a little boy playing soldier. In his nightmares, Breda walks to Mustang's office. The outer room is strangely empty; there's no Hawkeye with stacks of paperwork, or Fuery banging away at some piece of machinery, or Havoc tapping his cigarette box in an absent rhythm. There's no Falman sitting content and quiet in the corner, or busy Elric brothers banging down the door. Only a strange, empty sort of silence. _

_ Mustang is there, sitting behind his desk like normal. But he looks hollow and haggard, and his eyes when they meet Breda's are horribly blank and as empty as the strange silence in the air. _

_ "The others," Breda manages. "Sir, where are the others?"_

_ "I hear you're to be commended, Officer," Mustang says, as if Breda hasn't spoken, and there is nothing in his voice, nothing at all. "Your actions on the war front were apparently most impressive."_

_ "I don't want war," Breda whispers. "I never wanted war. Sir, the others?"_

_ "They say that you never wavered from the mission," Mustang continues, and Breda wonders, a bit wildly, if the man can even hear him. "In spite of your initial disagreement with it. Not once."_

_ "Sir. Sir, please. Where are they?"_

_ "You followed orders, Soldier. Even when your friends fought and fell around you. Most commendable."_

_ And Breda gasps as the reason for the empty office, for Mustang's broken eyes, finally becomes clear. _

_ And as the horrible, ringing, absence of sounds that should be there press against his head like drilling fingers of guilt, the rips in his father's uniform begin to bleed._

…_..._

_ Breda isn't the only one to dream of something that doesn't belong to him. When Alphonse drifts, incapable of physical sleep and yet desperate for some sort of restful inactivity, he dreams of flesh that he no longer has, and sensations he can no longer feel. _

_ He's standing in a room that he doesn't immediately recognize, because the wonder is too great. To feel, to actually comprehend the air on his skin and the strange metallic taste that alchemy leaves on his tongue, is almost staggering. To have eyes actually capable of welling wet and running over, to taste the salt of his own tears, has him gasping and laughing and momentarily unaware of his surroundings. _

_ He's cold. He's actually cold, and tired, and hungry. He presses a hand to his rumbling stomach, and laughs even louder at the scratch of fabric against his palm. _

_ "Brother!" he gasps, with a voice that doesn't echo or ring, because he knows instinctively that if this is his miracle, then Ed is the reason for it. _

_ He spins in a circle, barely absorbing the bright walls with their weirdly familiar wallpaper, searching for that familiar face that will undoubtedly share his wonder. What he finds instead is his metal suit, crumpled on the ground like wet paper. Al stares at it for a moment, before kneeling down with outstretched hands. He spent so long inside of it, he wants to know what it feels like from the outside. _

_ The armor is strangely warm against his fingers, and the alchemic odor is stronger the closer he gets to it. _

_ "Thanks," he whispers to it, even though he feels foolish, because in a way, it still took care of him when he was without his body. _

_ "Al?"_

_ Al jumps (and comes down strangely heavy), before he recognizes his brother's voice, and spins on the spot, searching the shadows. _

_ "Brother! Ed! You did it! You-"_

_ But Ed isn't there, with a weary smile and triumphant eyes. Al is alone, except for the familiar voice that keeps calling his name._

_ "Al. Alphonse."_

_ There's only one place the voice could be coming from. Al's heart, his brand new, beating heart, freezes in his chest, and he remembers what it is to feel the adrenaline of horror and dread. _

_ "Brother?" he whispers, and kneels down next to the spent and sprawled metal suit. "Ed?"_

_ He scoots so he can see the face, and chokes on his own screams as he sees the dull, glowing lights in the armor eye sockets. _

_ "Brother. What did you do?"_

_ "Al," there's a wealth of exhausted satisfaction in that disembodied voice. "Equivalent exchange. I fixed it, Al. It's fair."_

_ Al bends over the armor head, beats his fist against the ground next to it._

_ "No. Ed. This isn't what I wanted."_

_ "It's fair," the metallic voice insists, and it's wrong, so wrong to hear Ed's voice so far away. "I'm sorry, Al. It's not exactly right. It's not exactly yours. But it's the best I could do, and it's fair."_

_ Not exactly right. Al sucks in a shuddering breath, and realizes why he fell so heavily when he jumped into the air. Automail. His arm is made of automail. His eyes pop wide and painful in his face as he grabs at the too long hair hanging in a limp braid behind his head. Too long, and too bright yellow._

_ Not his. Not his. _

_ "Brother," he demands, and his voice is shaking, spinning out of control. He's going to start screaming soon, with a mouth that isn't his, and once he starts, he knows he won't be able to stop. "You. Equivalency. What did you give for this?"_

_ But Ed just sighs, "Al", one more time, in that calm and happy way. _

_ And then the blood seal on the back of the armor shatters, and the soft eye lights disappear. _

_ And Al screams and screams, finally in flesh again, but at the price he never wanted and always feared. _

…_..._

_ Havoc doesn't dream of empty offices, or crippling silences, at least, not right away. In the beginning, they're all there, and all standing around him. At first, they're laughing, and talking, and working in harmony like they always do. Jokes are bandied back and forth, food is brought and shared, and office supplies are passed without words being exchanged, in the comfortable mind-reading way the truly close acquire. And Havoc, sitting in the middle of it, is content to sit and smile and be grateful, so very grateful for their presence._

_ But then, it starts to change. Breda leaves for a snack run to the Mess, and doesn't return. Falman wanders out with a stack of papers, and never brings them back. The Elric brothers leave on a mission, taking their loud sounds with them, and don't check back in. Havoc grows nervous, uneasy, even though the others appear completely unperturbed. When he walks into Mustang's inner office, only to catch the man stacking his beloved desk pictures into a cardboard box, that panic forms a hot, hard ball in his stomach. _

_ "Colonel?" he says, and tries to keep his voice from trembling. "Are we moving offices, Sir?"_

_ Mustang doesn't turn. _

_ "We are," he says simply, and there's just enough emphasis on the word 'we' for Havoc's throat to tighten. _

_ "All right," he says, and tries for an easy laugh. It can't be what he thinks, just can't. "I guess I'll go pack up my desk."_

_ Mustang still doesn't turn, or pause in his own packing. _

_ "That won't be necessary, Lieutenant."_

_ "Sir?"_

_ "The Colonel said that we were moving offices," Riza explains, as she brushes past him through the doorway, carrying a stack of folders. "He didn't say that you were accompanying us. The necessary documents, Sir."_

_ "Thank you, Lieutenant," Mustang says serenely, and drops them in his box._

_ It's all so calm, so horribly placid. Havoc wants to ruin it with his scream. _

_ "You, ah. You get promoted or something, Colonel?" he asks instead, and there's no way to keep his voice steady now. It shakes with the force of his suspicions and fear. "Leaving your subordinates behind?"_

_ "Not at all," Mustang demurs. _

_ Riza is the one that looks at him, and her sherry eyes are creased with mild confusion and annoyance. Like he's a headache she can't get rid of. _

_ "Really, Lieutenant," she scolds. "What possible reason could we have for wanting you along?"_

_ "I don't tolerate subordinates that hold me back," Mustang reminds him, and his voice is still so calm, so dismissive. Like Havoc already isn't there. "You know that, Havoc."_

_ "Hold you back?" Havoc whispers. "But I...I thought..."_

_ The disgusted pity of Hawkeye's face says that she knows exactly what he thought, and she finds it both unbelievable and embarrassing for his sake. _

_ Havoc stumbles backwards, out of the inner office, away from that unpleasantly sympathetic face that burns his skin like acid. He nearly runs over Fuery, who's carefully stacking his little wire projects inside his own cardboard box._

_ "Fuery," he gasps, and clings. Maybe it's cruel of him, but the man is too nice for his own good, and he couldn't possibly push Havoc away. "Fuery, they're leaving me behind."_

_ Fuery blinks._

_ "Of course they are," he says, kindly and somehow that's so much worse. "Of course. I mean, come on, Havoc. Why would they want you around? We've got important things to go. I mean, you're nice enough and all, but you're not special. So you can't understand."_

_ Fuery's words are a bullet, on top of the burn of Riza's. Havoc staggers back and slumps against a wall, gaping blankly as Fuery adjusts his glasses and scoops up his box. _

_ "I'm sure they're sorry for it," he offers, before he too leaves the office. _

_ Havoc doesn't see Mustang leave, or Hawkeye, but he knows that they're gone too. They've left, all alone in the quiet office, moved up and ahead and left him behind. _

_ And the worst part, he thinks as he slowly sinks to the floor, is that he's not entirely sure that their reasons for forgetting him are wrong._

_ Doesn't his own worthlessness mean that he deserves this silent office, this empty space?_

_ Havoc curls up, and as he listens to the ghosts of laughter and voices and friendship now gone, he thinks that he must. _

…_..._

_ Falman's dreams aren't silent, but a part of him almost wishes that they were. Because the sound in them is wrong, so wrong, at least on his part. _

_ He can speak. When he opens his mouth, his voice comes out. But the words aren't his. Every time he tries to voice his opinion, or offer a comment, the only thing that he's capable of emitting is words that he's stolen from others, at Mustang's request. And every time he fails to find his own voice, he notices that a piece of himself turns back and withers away._

_ When Mustang asks after his mission report, Falman answers with the vicious and curse-filled slander that he'd carefully overhead being passed from one General to another. His right arm darkens and turns to dust._

_ When Breda asks if there's anything he wants from the mess, he spews out an officer's opinion of his superior, uttered in a bar where he thought his thoughts would go unheard. He feels his left er shrivel and disappear. _

_ When Havoc loses his lighter and asks if Falman has any matches, Falman parrots the underhanded gossip of the front-desk secretary, which she whispered to her mother over an unsecured phone line. He feels his legs twist and turn and collapse below the knee. _

_ When Fuery asks if he's up for a hand of cards, Falman repeats the highly classified mission orders that he heard two officers whispering to each other outside the Fuhrer's office. His left arm rots and follows the way of his right. _

_ When Riza asks if he delivered the Colonel's most recent mandatory documents, Falman answers with the family anecdotes he heard the Fuhrer sharing with his secretary through his office door. There's a funny tickling feeling as half of his face collapses in on itself, indenting his head into a swollen, misshapen mess. _

_ When the Elric brothers ask if he's seen the bastard Colonel, because Ed has papers to turn in and Mustang isn't in his office, Falman offers the rumors he overhead in the Mess about why Mustang really recruited the pre-teen prodigy. His mouth curls in on itself and melts away, and its almost a relief. _

_ The strangest part of the situation, really, Falman reflects, as he sits in his new deformed and desperate state, is the way that none of his fellow officers seemed to notice the way parts of him were lost every time he repeated words that didn't belong to him. _

_..._

_ It's hard for Ed to isolate a single nightmare, because his are numerous, and revolve around too many hurts to consolidate into a single message. They present themselves on several recurring landscapes, all familiar in a way he wishes they weren't. Sometimes he's curled up on the family room floor of his house in Resimbool, and the bent and twisted shape that he created is sprawled across his lap, oozing blood and pus from blackened skin and speaking in his mother's sweet voice. Sometimes he's back in the Tucker family basement, surrounded by chimera cages, and Nina's horrifically human eyes are staring at him from an animal's face, filled with unspeakable pain. Sometimes he's back in Berry the Chopper's freezer truck, and he's too late, and the killer is wearing a new wig of golden hair that still drips with blood and Winry's scent. _

_ But the worst nights are the ones where Ed dreams that he is back inside the Gate of Truth. The walls stretch white forever on, and there's a body slumped against the stone doors that are the only landmark. A painfully thin, obviously malnourished body, with a mop of hair matted down by dirt and grease. And while this would normally be a cause for concern, instead it sparks a bonfire of happiness and hope in Ed so bright that his eyes burn from it. _

_ Alphonse._

_ He runs for the wraith-like figure, and he's laughing, full and belly deep, because it might be wasted and weak, but it's still breathing, and that's to be counted as a victory in the end. _

_ "Al!" he shouts, and his voice is so light it almost shreds his throat. "Alphonse!"_

_ The figure doesn't turn, but it does utter a soft, "Brother," in response. The voice is faint, almost weaker than the undernourished body, and comes closer to tripping Ed's internal alarm, but he can't quite muster up trepidation when Al is standing right before him, obviously a bit crumpled, but still, just. There. _

_ "Al, I'm here!" he cries. "I'm here, I promised, remember? You're not going to be alone anymore. Come with me now, Al, okay? Come on!"_

_ He's babbling, and he doesn't care. The relief is monstrous, and he feels like he might fall over from the sudden absence of weight on his shoulders. _

_ "Brother. I'm...so happy...to see you."_

_ For the first time since he started his mad dash, a faint frown creases Edward's brow, and diminishes his happy smile a bit. _

_ "Yeah...me too, Al. Why won't you look at me? Come on, we've got to go. I've got to get you back."_

_ He reaches out to grasp that too-thin wrist with gentle fingers, only to pull his palm away like it had been scalded by the feel of Alphonse's skin. _

_ There's no give there, or warmth, or soft beat of blood. Al's skin is as cold and unyielding as metal. _

_ As armor. _

_ With the low, panicked cry of trapped and dying animal, Ed presses against his brother's side, crowding in and trying to see what went wrong._

_ He immediately understands why his baby brother is speaking so slowly._

_ "We...waited...too long," Al manages. "Soul...bonded to the armor. The inside...matches the out."_

_ Alphonse's facial features are slowly freezing into the exact human likeness of his armor faceplate. _

_ "No, Al, no!" Ed screams, and shoves instinctively at his brother's side, trying to force him out of his rigidity and into more natural movement. "We're not...I can't...I'll find another way!"_

_ Al can't shake his head; his muscles have locked too far into place, but he makes a soft sound of denial in his throat. _

_ "I'm...happy...to see you," he repeats through teeth that are clenching of their own accord, and then his jaw snaps shut, and he can't speak anymore. Can only convey his pain and helplessness through eyes that are still horribly, gut-wrenchingly aware of his new inability to move. _

_ Ed stumbles back, trips over his own feet, and stares upward at his immobile baby brother with huge eyes and a too-white face. _

_ End it, Al's eyes beg. Brother, don't leave me like this._

_ And tears start to roll down ice-cold cheeks, because they're in the Gate of Truth, where lies can't be told._

_ And Ed always feared that his mistakes, his stupidity, his too-slow speed, would cause him to kill his own brother in the end. _

…_..._

_ Riza knows that nightmares are impractical. They're nothing more than a summation of her deepest fears, acted out by her subconscious due to the fact that her cognitive mind refuses to indulge them during the waking hours. She understands the root of them, where they come from and why they exist, as well as why they're ultimately impossible when applied to reality._

_ But her rational reassurances still don't save her from waking up in a nest of tangled sheets, in a room that stinks like fear. _

_ When Riza dreams, she's delivering paperwork. Nothing special, or out of the ordinary. Havoc and Breda are bantering in the outer office, kicking at each other like children, and digging a crick in the back of Hawkeye's neck that she's just as fond of as she is exasperated by. Fuery's perched at his station, surrounded by his little tool box and a brand new project, and the affection she has for him is that of a proud older sibling. Falman is sitting in the back, silently scratching away at his own pile of documents, and she nods her approval at his efficiency. Edward is back from his latest mission, and sprawled all over the rug, occasionally lending an automail appendage to Havoc and Breda's foot battle. He's fighting sleep, his last mission was a long one, and it's with motherly concern that Riza watches his eyes droop and flutter. She grants Alphonse a tiny smile, because the boy is hovering over his brother protectively, somehow giving off an air of contentment and calm in spite of his armor body. _

_ Hawkeye walks into the Colonel's office quite serene, and at peace with her position in life. _

_ "Your documents, Sir," she says softly, letting her affection for the man who claws at the boundaries restricting his cause until his hands bleed show in the only way she can. _

_ Mustang understands and interprets her gentle tone._

_ "Thank you, Lieutenant," he says. "Everyone behaving out there?"_

_ "Edward is dozing. I may have to send Havoc and Breda to separate corners soon."_

_ A soft, husky snort._

_ "Ah, well. Can't win them all."_

_ The softness in the air, the lazy sense of right and purpose and finally doing something worthwhile makes her mellow, loosens her tongue. _

_ "We're doing good here, aren't we?"_

_ And instead of an indulgent smile and a gentle admonition to keep maintain professionalism, Mustang relaxes back in his beloved chair, and gifts her with a true smile that's even rarer than her outspoken optimism. _

_ "Yes, Lieutenant. I believe we are. You've been a great asset to me, Hawkeye. I am grateful."_

_ "Yes, Sir," Riza agrees softly. Smiles. Means it._

_ And then she calmly draws her gun and empties its chamber into the back of Mustang's head, until he's face down and dripping bits of blood and brain matter all over the documents she'd just delivered. _

_ She understands the imagery, from a logical standpoint. Her most important mission is to protect the Colonel. Her greatest weapon with which to do this is her gun. It makes sense that an instinctive fear of betrayal, of failing to protect, would formulate._

_ It's logical. And it's a thought process that doesn't help her scrub her terror-soaked sheets clean in the morning. _

…_..._

_ Roy used to dream of Ishvalan skin, losing its shape and melting like candle wax, at the sound cue of his snapping fingers. He used to dream of dark red eyes, wide with trapped animal fear, going glassy and blank as bodies turned loose and cool. _

_ He still does sometimes. _

_ But new knowledge has since enlightened and upgraded his nightmares in a most unappealing way. _

_ Now, when Roy dreams, he sees himself sitting behind the Fuhrer's desk. The added stripes and stars on his uniform indicate that he isn't there by accident, that he's actually earned the chair he's sitting in, and the satisfaction that curls inside his stomach is stunning and sharp. _

_ He should scream his exaltation to the ceiling._

_ He should immediately work on weeding out the Generals that will no doubt be gunning for his as yet uncemented and unstable occupation. _

_ All he wants is a quiet, celebratory moment with his men._

_ And like magic, like a summoning issued by that miraculous feeling of finally achieving a life's objective, the door opens, and his unit spills inside. _

_ They're wrong. He can see immediately how wrong they are, and his jubilation turns cold and rotten in his gut. _

_ They're different. Darker. Wearing black instead of military-standard blue. Whittled and sharpened in a way that's both subtle and impossible to miss. _

_ The red tattoos burn against their suddenly too-pale skin like blood. _

_ "You want something, Boss?" Havoc asks, with a grin full of too-sharp teeth, his Ouroboros wrapped around his left eye like pretty, scarlet poison. _

_ Always wanted your women, that eye informs him. Your women, your job, and maybe that pretty face of yours, Colonel. Been playing second fiddle to you from the start._

_ Envy. Nothing like the last one, but Envy all the same. _

_ At his side, Falman sighs and slumps. His dark eyes are dead and dull. _

_ "Troublesome," he mutters, and when he speaks, Roy can see the flash of red against his tongue. _

_ "Don't be such a downer, Sloth," the Breda look-a-like snickers, and shoves a well-placed elbow into Falman's ribs. "Perk it up a bit, would ya?"_

_ "Shut up, Gluttony, you fat piece of shit," Havoc snaps, and does a little shoving of his own. _

_ Sloth. Because he never did a single thing to save himself, never tried to swim in the ocean of Mustang's orders of unwanted espionage. He'd drowned himself instead. _

_ And Gluttony. Always hungry, not for food, but to fill the gaping hole his father left behind. Desperate to fill it better than Daddy ever did, and taking in too much in the process. _

_ Fuery is confusing, because surely that man hasn't sinned a day in his life. But its the pain, still so evident in those sickly green-purple eyes as he gazes at whats become of their little group, that gives him away. _

_ Always wanted those happy endings for all of us, didn't you? Greedy, Fuery. _

_ He can't see, of course, but he bets that Fuery's red tattoo is right above his heart. _

_ "Sir? Did you need something?"_

_ It's Riza who asks the question this time, and her voice is all wrong, a husky, breathy purr instead of her typical tone of serenity. Her golden hair is loose around her bare shoulders, and she's so beautiful, but it's wrong, and bad, and nothing that he ever wanted. Devastating, in more ways that one. _

_ "This isn't right. This isn't what I wanted."_

_ His voice is a weak, broken whisper. It's met by a rude, sarcastic snort. _

_ "No? Come on, Bastard. This is exactly what you were after."_

_ And if looking at Riza so wrong is devastating, then looking at Edward's new form is impossible. Tucked into the garb of those that he'd shed his own blood trying to stop, his new tattoo a bright and blazing banner around on his hipbone where his shirt didn't quite meet his pants, Edward is the embodiment of what Mustang would have died rather than let come to pass. _

_ "Our backs were just your stepping stones, right?" the boy continues, and his smirk is so much sharper than it used to be, an actual stinging blade now as opposed to the much softer scowl of before. "A bridge to reach your goal."_

_ "No. No, I-"_

_ "Wrath is right, Boss," Havoc adds, tucking his hands easily behind his head. "You made us, after all. You hand-picked us like cigarettes, and led us down the road that turned us into this."_

_ "Pretty little tools," Riza agrees, her tone a promise of delight and her words a honey-smothered blade. _

_ Mustang shudders. Remembers recruiting them to his squad. Securing their loyalty. Remembers luring two little boys out of Resimbool with candy-sweet promises of redemption. _

_ "Used us up, didn't you?" Ed continues with savage glee, and Mustang has zero trouble understanding why he's Wrath. _

_ "Put your own goals in front of ours," Alphonse says softly, his red tattoo a hot brand against his metal forehead. _

_ He's Pride, it's the only one left, and Roy can't understand it for the life of him. Maybe because Alphonse never officially joined his squad, and so his still has some?_

_ "I never wanted, never meant...I just wanted you with me. I knew that you could help me."_

_ He's babbling, driven to explain, because he knows that he did this, that he's capable of doing this._

_ "Yeah, well," Edward says with that too-sharp smirk, like daggers. "You got your wish, didn't you Bastard?"_

_ Havoc's hands are still folded, still loose and easy, but behind his red tattoo, his eyes burn like damning fire. _

_ "You made us," he repeats. "So, we're your pretty toys until the end now. Boss."_

…_..._

The air around Central Command was as black as pitch, and still and soft in the way that only unified sleeping silence could bring. Unranked soldiers slept in regulation dormitory beds, and dreamed of the day that they'd earn the stripes on their uniforms. Generals snuggled down in feather-soft beds in their luxurious townhouses, and drifted on satisfying thoughts of power and ambition. All around, the air was mellow and mild, and free from the ringing interruption of voices.

Office windows were dark and dead, save for one room in the center that burned with light.

It was not abnormal to enter the office well before the required hour, only to find Hawkeye already delivering paperwork, while Edward and the Colonel engaged in irritable bickering across the precious desk. It wasn't considered strange to find a pot of coffee hot and ready on the plate, and filters from previous batches littering the garbage cans. It was never remarked upon when all seven officers, plus one suit of armor, ended up in the office before the sun was even considering show it's face.

And if Fuery made a point of physically reaching out to everyone in the office upon his arrival, it was never mentioned.

If Breda ran soft fingers over his un-ripped uniform, like stroking comfort from a baby blanket, it was politely ignored.

If Alphonse laughed too loudly, and forced cheerful words about his miserable form, nobody corrected him.

If Havoc sought reassurance by volunteering to take every odd job and errand, a quiet list was compiled of chores to keep him feeling useful.

If Falman talked a little more than usual, a listening and attentive ear was lent without remark.

If Edward was observed wrapping fingers repeatedly around his baby brother's metal skin and squeezing until the armor squeaked in protest, no one offered a word of reproach.

If Riza checked the safety on her gun before delivering documents to Mustang's desk, no one ever asked why she thought it was necessary.

And if Mustang wandered out to hover in his office doorway, staring at them with eyes full of indecision and a sort of panic-soaked desperation, they all did their best to smile and silently reassure.

Because they didn't need words to understand what brought them all together before the dawn.

...

_A/N: And...exhausted. This monster mind-screw of a story all started with one of those lightning bolts of insight to the brain. I was counting off the members of Mustang's squad in my head (including Alphonse) trying to think of a funny situation in which to group them. And then I realized that Mustang is sort of the Father/Dante of the group, and that there ARESEVENOTHERSIT'SSOPERFECTOHOHOHOHO. Cue snowball. So. Yeah. Hope you liked!_


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: I'm back! Sorry about the lack of fanfare; I'm actually quite ill at the moment. But I told myself that I wasn't going to let my readers go another weekend without an update, and so here we are. Blame any errors/what the hell-isms in the story on the various medications I'm on. Thanks, as always, to my absolutely amazing readers, who stick by me and continue to be awesome. I love you all dearly! I promise that I took the time I wasn't updating this story to work on some new stuff; I updated all of my other multi-chapter works, posted a Star Trek story, and outlined a new multi-chapter that I plan to start working on once "Remember When" is finished. _

_For any of you I may have emotionally traumatized with the last chapter: my bad. I had to do it. Ninth Feather left me the most amazing review that seemed to sum it up brilliantly; "Allow me to praise you, and then go and try and forget I ever read it". My bad, BB's! I promise this chapter is much lighter._

_This chapter is a special dedication to Sofia Merriweather, who left me crazy amazing reviews and requested this topic. Sorry about the super lateness, dear...I hope this is roughly what you were after!_

_With that being said, please keep in mind, dear readers, that I haven't seen much of Brotherhood, and so much of the character information I found for this story I gathered from the internet. Please don't hate me if I trip over canon, and fall on my face!  
_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist; no money is being made from the writing of this story._**  
**

**Ice Advisory**

"Major Armstrong's sister is coming to visit."

Lieutenant Hawkeye's declaration, upon delivery, dropped into the room like a bomb, and bitch-slapped everyone in the face upon detonation. Havoc and Breda immediately ceased their shoving match over the last cup of coffee in the pot. Fuery's fingers stilled mid wire-repair of the old radio. The pen in Falman's hand jerked to stop on top of the report he was writing. Even Mustang, who Edward had dubbed "The Laziest Bastard Who Ever Happened Upon Command By Slutting His Way To The Top" popped his head out of his coveted inner office at Hawkeye's announcement.

Expressions ran the gamut of the horror spectrum, ranging from mild to 'just saw someone take a battle-axe to the face'.

"Major Armstrong's sister?" Fuery asked, and if anyone heard the tremor in his voice, they were too wrapped up in their own terror to comment on it.

"More importantly," Breda jumped in, waving Fuery's question aside with urgent hands. "Major Armstrong _has a sister_?"

Hawkeye's face was bland.

"Yes. Why is that so surprising, Breda? Even army men have families." A small, admittedly devious smirk curled the Lieutenant's lips. "Everyone at least has parents at some point, right? So how do you think the Major got here?"

Breda's face went as white as the coffee filters in his hand. For a brief moment, the unwanted image of two massive figures wrestling on a flat surface, set to the soundtrack of enthusiastic shouts about family lineage, with mood lighting provided by explosions of sparkles in lieu of discreetly dimmed lamps, _violated_ his brain.

"I...I don't think about it," Breda squeaked. "_Ever_."

Falman's nod of agreement was so fervent, he almost face-smashed his desk.

"Is she..." Havoc's voice trailed off into an uncontrollable croak of fear. He had to clear his throat before trying again. "Is she like the Major?"

"_Does she sparkle?_" Breda added, his whisper the desperate sound of someone trying to hold back the forces of darkness.

At this point, Hawkeye pivoted to face her commanding officer, cocking an eyebrow as if to inquire why he wasn't answering any of these questions.

"I've never met the Major's sister," he said, a bit defensively. "I've heard of her; who hasn't? Major General Olivier Armstrong. She's brilliant, according to the rumors, and she fights like a hellcat."

"But...but...does she fight like a hellcat that _sparkles_?"

This time, Breda's horrified whisper was ignored by Havoc, whose terror appeared to be dissipate some under the weight of new interest.

"Hellcat, huh?" he repeated. "She hot?"

Hawkeye's eyebrow reduced Havoc's budding curiosity to shame and sheepishness in seconds.

"I've heard that the Major General is perfectly lovely," she said. "However, you wouldn't be suggesting that a woman in the military should be judged based on such crude requirements, would you, Lieutenant?"

And, just like that, the terror was back in Havoc's eyes.

"Please don't shoot me."

In the background, Breda was busy gripping at his hair, driven to dramatics by the sheer weight of his apprehensive horror. Also, his brain was still a little broken from the mental image of Armstrong's parents dancing the dirty tango.

"_Hot_," he hissed. "Havoc, _think of where she came from_."

Fuery, who was shorter even than his female superior officer, and who felt as if he disappeared into the shadow of Major Armstrong's muscles every time the man came around, rocked nervously on his feet.

"Is she tall?" he asked the Colonel earnestly. "Like the Major?"

"_Dramatic speeches!_" Breda, who apparently had decided to abandon sanity all together, added in the background. "_Pink sparkles!_"

"Like I said, I haven't met the Major General in person," Mustang repeated, ignoring Breda's panicked shrieks completely. "But...I'm sure she is just as pleasant and attractive as her brother."

Fuery's face went white.

"Sir," Falman said urgently. "I'd like to put in a request for leave. Or an away mission. Soon. _Immediately_."

"Now, now, Warrant Officer. You're being a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"No."

_"RIPPLING MUSCLES THAT COULD CRUSH A SOLIDIER'S SKULL_," Breda added helpfully from the back.

…...

When the zero hour of arrival finally rolled around, Fuery made the unfortunate mistake of leaving the office to execute a lunch run for his squad. He'd been instructed to order from the little deli down the street, and couldn't stop the satisfied smile from curving his lips as he exited the building and the early spring sunshine warmed his face.

He had no idea that his happiness was about to be obliterated into itty bits of shell-shocked despair.

Major Armstrong was standing at the bottom of the steps, hands folded and wearing a shirt for once. Lulled by the soft breeze and smell of budding flowers, Fuery forgot for a moment that he was supposed to be avoiding the Major like a stomach rotting, scary sister spawning plague. He detoured to the Major's side, and opened his mouth to deliver a cheerful greeting, only to jerk to a terrified stop when a black car came rumbling up the road, bringing a horrible flash of clarity with it. Fuery's brain took the opportunity to politely remind him what he'd so conveniently tricked himself into forgetting.

_THERE IS A DEMON WOMAN IN THAT CAR_.

Fuery's terrified squeak was his own undoing. Armstrong caught the sound even over the whir of the approaching engine, and blinked eyes brimming with tears in Fuery's direction.

"MASTER SERGEANT!" Armstrong bellowed, and wrapped the soldier in a back-backing embrace.

"I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" Fuery bellowed right back.

Armstrong chose to disregard this completely, and gave the communications officer another rib shattering squeeze instead.

"How kind of you to come, on this most joyous occasion of my sister's arrival!"

"Can't breathe."

"I'm truly touched by your friendship and support!"

"I think my spine is fracturing."

Armstrong boomed out a hearty laugh, like Fuery had just told the most wonderful joke, and set the soldier back on his feet. Immediately, Fuery tried to inch away, but Armstrong tossed an arm roughly the size of a tree trunk around Fuery's shoulders, and locked him to his side.

"Your exuberance is most understandable, Master Sergeant," Armstrong continued cheerfully. "What a fortunate day for you, to meet another member of such a distinguished family!"

Fuery watched the car roll up the drive like a death sentence. He took a moment to grateful that the Major was at least fully clothed, and so he wasn't pressed up against his muscle-bound, sweaty side. Then the car eased to a stop, and Fuery's thought processes shorted out into a hysterical loop of _PLAY DEAD, PLAY DEAD! MAYBE IF I HOLD REALLY STILL I'LL VANISH INTO THE MAJOR'S MUSCLE SHADOW. _

If Armstrong wondered why his new friend was bending his knees a bit and attempting to shrink into his side, he didn't comment. His attention was entirely focused on the car door being thrown open.

A woman stepped out, tall indeed but far from freakish, and wearing the Major's colors on a far more attractive face.

_She's pretty_, Fuery's mental breakdown ground to a halt as he considered this new information. _Really pretty. And not nearly as scary looking as I thought._

"MY DEAR SISTER!" Armstrong bellowed, and released Fuery from his stranglehold so that he could dive for his sister's love instead. Fuery, filled with curiosity now that his fear had started to abate, hovered hesitantly on the sidewalk where he'd been left. "IT IS REMARKABLY PLEASING TO SEE YOU ONCE AGAIN!"

_This isn't so bad_, Fuery thought, and even started to smile a little. _Actually, it's kind of sweet. Look, they're going to-_

And then Olivier's eyes snapped up, and flashed in her brother's direction like frozen chips of hard blue ice.

Fuery's cognitive bid for semi-coherency died a swift and painful death.

_I will beat you to death_, her eyes seemed to suggest, _With whichever of your appendages touches me first._

It was impressive enough to stop even Armstrong in the midst of his tackle made of love.

"Major," she greeted, in a voice as cold as the Command Center she'd journeyed from.

And then those ice-chip eyes burned in Fuery's direction, and he seriously considered the benefits of fainting where he stood.

"One of your subordinates?" the female Armstrong inquired.

"A co-worker," her brother corrected, still shooting off happy sparkles in spite of his interrupted hug attempt. "And a friend."

"I see," Olivier said, and Fuery felt his soul dwindle from the sheer amount of condemnation she managed to convey with those two words alone. "And does he not comprehend how to salute in the presence of a superior officer?"

Armstrong laughed again, like his sister's scathing report of Fuery's character was the funniest joke ever told.

Dripping cold sweat down his spine, Fuery managed to lift his shaking hand and arrange it into some semblance of a proper salute.

Apparently satisfied by this, the Major General turned her attention back to her brother.

Fuery ran like a bat out of hell.

An hour later, Mustang's squad still hadn't seen their sandwiches. Hawkeye sent Falman on a search and rescue mission, to see what had become of their wayward lunch.

He found Fuery curled up in his bunk, with chattering teeth and blankets yanked firmly over his head.

…...

They should have listened.

Falman had reported. He'd found Fuery balled up in his bed like a frightened toddler.

Falman had explained. Fuery had babbled something about ice women and death beatings delivered by severed appendages.

Falman had then made himself suspiciously absent from the office. Because Falman, apparently, had a brain inside his skull.

_They should have listened_.

But by the time Armstrong burst through the door, beautiful woman in tow, it was far too late.

"Hey there, Major," Havoc said, shifting mood and stance automatically to accommodate the pretty face. "Who's your friend?"

Breda made a soft sound of agreement and moved to leer companionably over his friend's shoulder.

Those glacial eyes flashed up and over once again.

Breda and Havoc heard a distinct popping sound that signaled their testicles retreating back into their body cavities to search for safety.

"I suppose these are your friends as well, Major?" Olivier asked, scorn dripping from her voice like ice diamonds.

"Indeed they are!" Armstrong answered happily.

"How typical." Olivier's eyes raked over the two soldiers like snowstorms. "Your uniforms are unkempt."

Havoc raised an absent hand to tug rather numbly at his collar. Breda, who once again appeared to have left sanity behind for the greener pastures of panic and self-preservation, dropped like a stone and rolled under his desk.

Olivier's face suggested that she found this unsurprising.

"I see the cigarette box in your pocket, Soldier," the Major General continued. "Tell me, how do you expect to maintain an optimal form in order to best serve your state by polluting your own lungs, as well as the lungs of your fellow soldiers?"

_I think she'd like to wound me_, Havoc thought blankly. _With my own penis._

"Insulting my men already, Major General? You certainly move fast."

If possible, Olivier's pretty face darkened even more with dislike at the sight of Roy Mustang, leaning against his door frame with his arms crossed and a small smile on his face.

"Colonel," she said, and made it sound like a dirty word. "I must admit that I haven't seen anything impressive in what you've established here."

Mustang shrugged.

"Look harder," he suggested. "You'll see it eventually."

"Doubtful," the woman replied, and her voice was as hard as her eyes. "My expectations are never high for men who snake their way to the top."

Mustang's eyes flashed, fire, hot and quickly banked. A small smile curved his lips.

"I'm crushed," he murmured. "Surely your opinion of me can't be that low already? We've only just met."

"I assure you. I knew what you were before I got here."

"I see." Mustang spared the male Armstrong a brief glance. "Major, you're needed in Intelligence. Hughes rang me up; said he had some information he needed to share."

Armstrong snapped to attention.

"Of course. I'll be back in a moment."

He sparkled his way out the door, leaving Olivier and Mustang alone. Well, Havoc and Breda were there, but they'd both been terrified into silent stupidity, so they didn't count.

"I'm devastated by your poor opinion of my character, General," Mustang said softly, dark eyes glittering like fire. "I know that I can come across rather unfavorably in the rumor mill, but I'm really not that bad. I'd love the chance to change your mind. Maybe over dinner tonight?"

It was a bold move. Lesser women would have crumbled in the face of his silky voice, his dark eyes, his soft promises.

Olivier tossed back her head and looked one short fuse away from stabbing his head with her sword.

"You're laughably transparent," she informed him bluntly. "And you've just proved everything I knew from the start. Real soldiers fight and win with blood and weapons." She cocked one blade sharp eyebrow in his direction. "Try to win me over again with your bottom half, and I'll break it off."

Mustang's mouth flopped open, even as he winced instinctively. Across the room, Havoc looked torn between crowing in unholy glee, and cowering away from the Major's continued presence.

Into this hard, frozen silence, Hawkeye strolled, carrying a stack of papers.

"Major General," she greeted, ignoring the blank shock on her superior's face, and the feet sticking out from under the desk that she suspected belonged to Breda. "Welcome to Central Command."

She set her papers on the nearest desk before turning and offering a small, perfectly executed salute.

For the first time, Olivier's frigid eyes thawed with something like approval.

"You're in charge of all these men, Lieutenant?"

According to the chain of command, it wasn't a technically correct statement. But Hawkeye observed her squad, two of which were absent, and three of which were caught in varying stages of horror and full-out hiding, and sighed.

"Yes, Sir."

"You have my condolences," the Major General returned. "And my respect."

Mustang made a sound like he'd just run his face into a wall at full speed.

"Thank you, Sir," Hawkeye said serenely.

"At ease," Olivier allowed, and then with one last withering glance at Mustang's person, swept out of the room.

Hawkeye scooped up her abandoned stack of papers and settled them in the Colonel's arms.

"As I said, a perfectly lovely woman," Hawkeye observed. "I believe I'll go try to coax Fuery out of his bed. I suggest you have these done before I return. Sir."

That sound again, a squeaking sort of grunt.

On her way out the door, Hawkeye paused long enough to say, "Oh, hello Edward. Back so soon?"

And Mustang sort of considered that this might actually be the worst day of his life.

…...

"Who was that woman, Brother?"

Edward Elric, ambling down the hallway with his hands shoved in his pockets, shrugged absently in his baby brother's general direction.

"Dunno, Al. I only talked to her for a second."

They'd bumped into each other a little ways down the hall from Mustang's office, and she'd shot eyes full of ice daggers at him for it. She'd then excused herself in a way that sounded more like 'Watch your shit' than 'My apologies', and explained that she was simply trying to find her brother. Ed, for once too tired by the mission to be riled, had waved her pardon off with a sleepy hand, and wished her luck, since he'd already found his. He'd jerked a thumb in Al's direction when the lady shot him a bewildered glare, and for a moment, something in her eyes had seemed to soften.

"They can be wonderful things," she'd offered crisply. "Brothers."

"Yeah," Ed had agreed, and then she'd been off, marching down the hallway, where Ed noticed that other people were quicker to jump out of her way.

"She was pretty," Al offered, continuing their former conversation. "Kind of scary looking, though."

Ed gave a sleepy laugh.

"Not as scary looking as Teacher," he pointed out. "Close, but not quite."

They reached the door to Mustang's office just as Hawkeye stepped out of it.

"Oh, hello Edward," she said, with a warm nod to Alphonse as well. "Back so soon?"

Edward yawned.

"Yep. Gonna sleep for about a year once I hand in my report to Colonel Bastard. He in there?"

For a moment, something like amusement crossed Hawkeye's face, wrinkling Ed's brow. But then she smoothed it out into her politely blank mask of professionalism once again.

"Yes, he is. Excuse me, Edward. I have errands to run."

She hurried off rather rapidly, and so Ed's puzzled, "Huh," was for Al's metal ears alone.

"Maybe the Colonel knows who that woman is," Al mused, as they made for the door. "She had a nice face, I thought."

"Maybe. But there's one thing _I_ know, Al."

"What's that, Brother?"

"Winry's never allowed to meet her."

...

_A/N: Blah. Wanted it to be longer. Apparently, this was all my fever-addled brain could handle. Oh, well. As one of my professors used to say; "Never write longer than it takes to make your arguement". Or story, in this case. Until next time, friends! Happy Reading!_


	28. Chapter 28

****_A/N: I LIVE! My apologies, friends. I've been traveling outside of the country (to a land of limited internet access) and realized as soon as I arrived that I completely forgot to post here and let people know I'd be gone. So sorry! But I'm back now, and already working away (be patient with me, Asylum fans...I'm almost done!). Thanks so much to all of you who have stuck with me this far (I can't even believe that this story has been running for twenty-eight chapters). I truly treasure all of your love and support. MY LOVE FOR YOU IS LIKE A TRUCK (snerk. Berserk bloopers). _

_This installment was inspired by the episode "Hohenheim of Light", from the original series. In which Ed punches his father immediately upon seeing him, but then calmly rejects him later on. My brain ingested it, and then went, "Our pipsqueak? Calmly address the man he hates without saying his piece first? Nawwwww". Cue snowball. _

_Keep in mind while reading this: Alphonse is sweet and soft, of course. But he's not stupid, and he's not perfectly altruistic. At least in my interpretation of him.  
_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, and am making no money from the writing of this story.  
_

**The Importance of Possessive Nouns**

Edward Elric was angry.

This wasn't anything new, of course. The Fullmetal Alchemist was famed for his varying flavors of fury, ranging from the comparatively mild "Roy Mustang is a Slut-Bastard Colonel Who Only Wishes He Could Tell Me What to Do" to the full-blown, rage-fueled attacks of "SOMEONE CALLED ME TINY KILL EVERYONE IN IMMEDIATE VICINITY". Those who worked with and around the eldest Elric had developed a certain adeptness at knowing when to merely step back from the boy's spastic screaming, and when to actually abandon the area in which the alchemist unleashed his anger, preferably as fast as possible and potentially all the way to Eastern Command Headquarters.

But fewer soldiers were familiar with Edward's more serious shades of anger. For all that he truly failed at deceptive maneuvers, Fullmetal excelled at hiding the things that actually mattered to him. And so his true anger, the kind that darkened his eyes and shadowed his face, was barely seen and even then only by those who knew him best. Only the most important things triggered it; wreckage that blocked the road leading to his ultimate goal, reminders of his mother, mentions of his brother's metal frame. And once it was activated, usually Edward either needed a good fight or an intellectual distraction to chase it away.

Unfortunately for Hohenheim of Light, the anger his eldest son produced at the confirmation of his presence was apparently too deeply rooted and multi-leveled to be cleared away by a single vicious punch to the face.

So, Edward was angry. Skulking around Granny Pinako's house with a permanent sneer fixed on his lips and a horrible sadness in his eyes. The others might not have noticed the sadness, trapped as it was behind the towering anger and curls of contempt. But Alphonse Elric knew his brother better than anybody ever could, and years of stillness enforced by his metal suit had only enhanced his talent for seeing.

There was hurt there, reflected in those golden eyes. Pain and betrayal, unspoken shouts of _where have you been_ and _why did you leave us_ and _I wanted you with me, once_. Al could read them as easily as book pages. And because his brother's pain was important (everything) to him, he squashed his own urge to seek comfort from his father's arms and held himself back instead. He holed himself up in a convenient corner, and observed the uncomfortable dance executing itself inside Granny Pinako's house.

Brother was the main act, the star in the spotlight, stomping and storming and drawing attention with his obvious anger. Alphonse twisted his giant hands together at the sight of him and forced himself to stillness, in spite of his instinctive urge to soothe.

Their father was the counterbalance, the mirror to Brother's furious steps. Sitting serenely at Granny Pinako's kitchen table, he chatted quietly with the older woman, his hands wrapped around a mug of warm tea and his golden eyes soft and unbothered. Al didn't let his eyes linger there too long, because the sight of his father filled him with an upsetting thunderstorm of joy, and confusion, and the tiniest spark of anger that he absolutely would never own to.

The others acted as the ensemble dancers, spinning uncertainly between the two leads with fake smiles and cautious eyes (with the notable exception of Maria Ross, who was instead sitting on the couch and doing her level best to pretend that she hadn't been caught hitting on Papa Elric).

Al wanted to talk to his father. He really, really wanted to talk to his father. And he kind of wanted to do it while his father still had all of his teeth attached (Ed's initial "oh hi, nice to see you" punch had knocked their father flat onto his back, and coaxed little silver stars into spinning above his face). But loyalty to his Brother had him hanging back; Ed wasn't entirely wrong in hammering home the fact that their father had been away right when they'd needed him most. Al wanted to hear his father's side of the story, wanted to hear his reasons for staying away, something he knew Ed wanted to know just as badly, but could never ask. But Brother looked one paternal word away from blowing like a dynamite infused field, and Al's heart may have been soft and sad and searching, but it also acknowledged that Brother had been there when warm fatherly arms hadn't.

He had to make sure Ed was okay first, because he knew he was going to hurt him later by deciding to spend time with their father at all.

So Al settled back, and watched. Waited patiently, and ignored the warmly concerned looks flashed in his direction by older golden eyes. His nonexistent stomach twisted sharply at the sight of them, and he felt the tears he couldn't shed building like a hot, wet wave inside his heart.

Granny Pinako's house wasn't big. There was only so much room to dance in, especially with so many bodies executing the same steps. The Colonel's men all did their best to distract the teenaged alchemist, but Breda appeared to find the obvious emotionalism of the issue uncomfortable, and Falman never did have much to say, even under normal circumstances. Hawkeye did a little better, speaking low and soft to the elder boy until something momentarily softened in those angry golden eyes, but even she couldn't quell the storm of fury bubbling under Brother's surface.

They all wandered away eventually, defeated. But Al would have smiled at them anyway, if he could. For trying. For being the support system that Ed needed, and deserved, even if Brother believed (wrongly, Al insisted fiercely, so wrong) that he didn't deserve anything, ever again.

Winry might have been able to do better, to engage Ed in sharp words and soft smiles until Brother breathed a little easier. But she looked just as close to breaking as Brother did, pale-faced and sad, because Hohenheim called her by a different name, and Winry didn't remember well enough to see what he did. Al would go to her too, when the time was right, because watching her stare with glassy eyes and grip old picture frames in her palms made his already hurting heart ache.

So Ed stomped around mostly unchecked, his shoulders twitching tighter and tighter by the second, until everyone around him started to look like abandoning the field might be for the best.

There was someone, Alphonse knew, outside of himself that could settle his brother with nothing more than a word. But he'd disappeared a while back, Granny Pinako's telephone in hand, and so Alphonse was left to soothe the situation on his own.

He didn't mind. Living with Ed meant living with temper, and hot waves of emotion that crashed and changed as easily as ocean tides. Brother's heart was just too big and his feelings so easily stirred, not that he'd ever, ever admit it. Alphonse knew that, between the two of them, he carried the reputation for soft-heartedness. But that was only because hardly anyone bothered to breach the rock solid walls Ed had constructed around his own emotions, walls that hid the fact that Fullmetal was just as capable of feeling as his younger brother.

A necessity, Alphonse knew. Another sacrifice Brother had made for his sake. Crushing his own softness with rock and stone, so that Alphonse would never have to make the impossible choices. Another reason why Alphonse would insist, until the very end, that Brother owed him nothing, that the fault was shared, that Ed had given enough, stop tipping the scales, I want you to live your own life, Brother, and not the one you think you stole from me.

So, Alphonse watched. And waited. And sighed when things finally hit boiling point. Granny Pinako shooed their father out of the kitchen, because the house wasn't that big, and she had people to feed. Hohenheim meandered away from the table, into the main room, his eyes soft and steady as he stepped (accidentally, Al was almost sure) into Ed's pacing path. Ed recoiled instantly, his fists snapping tight like gunshots.

"Watch it, old man," he gritted out between clenched teeth. "You're in my way."

Hohenheim's smile was gentle. Warm. Al knew his brother saw it as nothing more than a silent scream of challenge.

"I'm your father, Edward," he said. "I'm _supposed_ to be in your way, aren't I?"

The fury in Ed's eyes roared and popped like fireworks. The air inside Granny Pinako's house hushed, still and silent. Every eye turned toward the inevitable.

"A father," Ed repeated, and a noise that might have been a smothered sound of disbelief, might have been a strangled shriek of fury, inched its way out of his throat. "You think you're a _father_? Quit claiming titles that don't belong to you, old man. Dads don't leave their kids, Dads _stick around_. Or did you miss that part in the instruction manual?"

"You're so angry, Edward," Hohenheim murmured, and his eyes were sad now, and full of sorrow. "You've a right to be, I won't deny you that. But is your temper really the only way you remember me?"

"A _turned back_," Ed hissed. "That's how I remember you. A suitcase, and turned shoulders."

The sorrow in their father's eyes was thick now, and heavy. Perhaps he was remembering days full of sunshine and family dinners that Ed couldn't, or refused to, recall. Al didn't know, wasn't sure, because he was too young, and the only memory he had of their father was the sound of a warm and rumbling voice.

"I had things to do. Important things. It's not an excuse, Edward; I know that. But it could be an explanation, if you'd listen."

Al would have listened. Would have sighed and stopped and given their father the chance to explain. Not because he was so forgiving. But because he could see, even beyond his hurt and confusion, that this was a parent, the only one they had left.

But Ed's anger ran too thick, and too deep. He couldn't see anything at all beyond his fury.

"I don't want your explanations," he spat. "Nothing you say could ever make up for what you missed. For what you made Mom suffer through alone."

An audible gasp filled the room, quickly smothered. The Elrics rarely spoke of their mother, and even then, never in detail. Most assumed, correctly so, that the horror and grief of it was still too fresh, even after all the years spent since her death.

Alphonse felt his metal body sag, slump against the wall behind him. Physical pain may have been lost to him, but the wound of his mother's face went deeper than skin and bone.

"I loved your mother," Hohenheim said, softly now.

"_You let her die alone_." Ed was trembling, his entire body shivering, shoulders bowed and bent under the combined weight of his anger and pain. "You let her die waiting for you, always waiting and smiling and telling us stupid lies. She…she was so weak at the end, and in so much pain, and she needed you, _we needed you_."

Horror painted the face of every occupant in the room, including Ed. Secrets that he'd never meant to share were bubbling to the surface now, and he couldn't stop them. Could only speak faster and faster as his fury and the desperation he thought he'd buried shoved them to the surface. Words rough and grated, compressed by the pressure of years spent holding them back.

Al pushed away from his wall, because his brother needed him now, really needed him. Only to be forced into stillness, because Ed was still talking.

"We needed you, and we were so scared, and she just kept slipping away from us and there was _nothing we could do_. We were kids, just kids, we _never_ should have had to deal with that on our own. You _should have been there_, but you weren't, and you never answered when we asked for help. _Begged_ you, you bastard. Begged and pleaded and Alphonse used to cry all over the letters he wrote, and I _know you saw it_, and you still didn't answer."

Ed's voice was starting to hitch dangerously. His eyes were wide and furious and full of panic, Alphonse knew, because he was so afraid he'd cry in front of the people he'd been so strong for. He'd stripped himself back to the frightened child in a matter of seconds, and it horrified him that these questions still existed inside him at all.

Falman and Breda were gaping, mouths open and eyes wide, stunned by the fury of the storm. Riza's eyes were hard and fixed, refusing to look away. Granny Pinako's head was bowed, her mouth pressed together tight. Winry was weeping quietly in the corner, tears rolling soft and sad down both her and Schiezka's cheeks, distraught by the unwilling picture Ed was painting.

"Brother," Al whispered, frozen halfway across the room, everything inside of him ringing with pain, bright and sharp.

"We waited so long." Ed wasn't done, didn't look like he'd ever be done. "Even after Mom…even after…we still waited. But you never showed, you never came back for us, and I…I-"

A rough hand clamped down on Edward's shoulder, slapping off his angry words like an alarm clock.

"Fullmetal," Mustang murmured, dark eyes steady and sure. "Enough."

For a moment, there was only silence. Fallout. Then, Ed sucked in air like knives shredding fabric.

"Bastard," he said shakily. Unsteady, unsure. "He…I…"

Mustang shook his head. Alphonse could see his brother's eyes, so wide, searching the Colonel's face.

"Enough," Mustang murmured.

And Ed subsided. Settled under the Colonel's hand.

"They can hear you all the way back in Central, kid," Mustang added, and when Ed's eyes snapped up to his, he let that familiar smirk slide across his face.

Fire kindled once again in Edward's eyes. But the flames were clean. Simple. They swept away the remnants of pain, and panic.

Everyone in the room, including Alphonse, breathed a little easier.

"Pffft. Whatever, asshole. We're not inside your fancy office anymore, are we? Which means I don't have to listen to your big, bastard mouth."

"Remember that one time, Fullmetal?" Mustang asked airily. "When you signed that _binding military contract_, swearing your allegiance to your superior officers? Remember how I outrank you, and so you _always have to listen to me, ever_?"

"Oh, that's adorable. How you think I've listened to you even once in my life. Like, just really precious."

Their words were quick and vicious, which was pretty average, but there was a laugh caught in Ed's throat now, instead of sadder noises. And he still hadn't shaken Mustang's hand away.

Alphonse breathed a sigh of relief, and returned to his wall. Because he wasn't needed anymore.

"Edward," their father said uneasily, and his eyes were fixed on Mustang's hand, locked so tight around his eldest's son shoulder. "I…you must believe…I never meant to cause you or your brother pain. I never intended to hurt my family."

"Sir," Mustang said, speaking quickly because Ed's mouth was already open and ready to reply. "I'd recommend saving your breath. I mean, we both know how hard-headed the kid here can be, right?"

But the Colonel's eyes flashed when he said it, and Al interpreted his unspoken message with ease.

_I know he's hard-headed. I do, because I was here. But you don't know for sure, do you?_

By the way his father's eyes had narrowed, Al wasn't the only one receiving Mustang's silent code, or the deeper meaning behind it.

_Not Yours_, Mustang's friendly smile explained. _Not anymore, maybe never, not Yours_.

And while Al assumed the Colonel actually meant to portray Ed's belonging as equal to the other soldiers in his squad, under his protection and nothing more, what he actually implied was something Al already knew, and had seen on many occasions between his brother and the Colonel.

What the Mustang's tight hold and easy smile actually imparted to their father was a much simpler message.

_Mine_.

It wasn't always obvious between the two. In fact, Al believed Ed was never actually aware of it, at least not consciously, because his waking mind refused to even entertain it as an option. Just as Al was equally convinced that the Colonel recognized it all the time, from the very beginning, and yet would never own to it out loud.

And yet, he was using it now. Blatantly, deliberately. And while Brother may have remained unaware (but on the surface only, because Al certainly hadn't missed the way Ed had unconsciously crowded close to the Colonel's side), recognition sparked across the rest of the room. Soft smiles were pressed behind palms, warm eyes were turned down toward the floor. And their father's face went as blank and unreadable as stone.

"Yes," he said softly. "Yes, of course."

Mustang hummed a little in agreement, and then gave Ed's shoulder a yank.

"Come on, Fullmetal. The holes in your mission report are big enough fit a city, and it's time you filled them in for me."

"Oh, seriously? You _always_ bitch about my mission reports. And when have I ever fixed them for you before?"

"There's this thing. It's called, 'The Situation We Are Currently in Is So Much More Serious than Your Typical Crap Performance'. There's your motivation."

"Oh, shut up, you jerk, I know that so much better than you do. And it's the principle of it, you know?"

The sound of the bickering carried them comfortably out of the room. And stranded those left behind on an island of awkward silence, in which everyone pretended they weren't staring at Hohenheim, or Alphonse, or some combination of the two.

The quick, searching glance his father shot in his direction beat against Alphonse's insides like battering rams.

"Well," Hohenheim said, and what a great actor he was, that warm smile was almost completely credible. "I believe I could use some fresh air. Excuse me."

He slipped out the door, onto Granny Pinako's deck, and Al let him go. He ducked his head and struggled viciously against his own internal monologue.

_It's good. It is good that Brother has the Colonel, that he's not alone. Brother needs that, more than he'd ever admit out loud. I'm happy for him, really._

It was true. Jealousy didn't exist inside Alphonse's mind, not where his brother was concerned.

_But_…

If Al had eyes, he would have squeezed them shut tight.

_But what about me?_

He hated the thought as soon as he had it. It was petty, and selfish, and had no place bouncing around his metal skull. He didn't begrudge his brother for finding a father-figure in the Colonel. Al was incapable of resenting his brother for something that so obviously brought him comfort. Stupid to feel left out, left behind.

But.

It didn't make him any less aware of his own loneliness. He'd never had the chance to know their actual father, not even a little bit. Al craved connection, especially after years trapped inside his metal frame. His father would remember him as something warm, something inarguably real, and Al wanted that, wanted someone other than Ed affirm his existence.

Brother could never know that he felt like this. Ed carried so much on his shoulders already, crippled himself with weight all for the sake of Alphonse. Al would never let himself be responsible for adding more. Ed deserved any happiness he could find, because Al knew he'd snatch it away from himself in a heartbeat if ever he thought if hurt his brother.

But Al wasn't perfect. Even though it made his insides twist with something that felt like disloyalty, he still wanted to know his father. Ed was enough, of course he was. But Brother had Mustang, and so Al didn't have to worry so much about hurting his feelings in his quest for more.

He shoved away from the wall, and exited toward the deck, ignoring the eyes that followed him. Moonbeams bounced off of his metal plates as he shut the door at his back, secluding himself in silence with his father.

"Alphonse," Hohenheim said. "You followed me out?"

"Yes." Something like jagged desperation lanced across Alphonse's mind. "Dad. I-"

_Need you to show me that I'm here, that I exist. Because Ed can move forward and find more (not his fault, not his fault) but the only proof I can find is in what came before. They don't want me, I'm not real to them, but I was to you once, so please, Dad, please-_

"Al? Everything alright?"

For one startled, semi-confused second, Al was sure it was his father that had spoken. Until he felt the impact of a hand hitting his shoulder.

"Colonel," Hohenheim said, with some weariness this time. "Weren't you with my other son?"

Mustang smiled, and never stepped away from Alphonse's back.

Alphonse felt his desperate pleas crumble and crack away, whited out by the wave of his shock.

"Edward is re-writing his mission report, and probably busy scribbling unflattering cartoon depictions of my person into the margins as we speak. Making sure my head is drawn accurately according to Edward's scale will keep him occupied for at least fifteen minutes."

"You certainly seem to know him well."

"Yes, well. Fullmetal is sort of like a really powerful firework. He makes fun colors when he explodes, but he needs someone to show him where to launch. I offer him my guidance, and hope that whatever he doesn't slap back at me actually sinks into that impressively thick skull of his."

It was a slap, another cleverly worded dig, but Alphonse hardly heard it. His entire concentration seemed to have narrowed to include only the hand, resting so casually on the upper plates of his arm. So lazily possessive.

A claiming. Exactly like Ed's.

_Mine. _

And Al could only gasp in the face of it, because he hadn't known, had never dreamed, that he'd found belonging here for himself as well.

The desperation building inside his chest plate drifted away on clouds of wonder.

"And, my other son?" Hohenheim asked. "He requires this guidance as well?"

Mustang laughed. It wasn't necessarily a nice sound, so much as a wordless warning.

"Well, no. No one requires guidance like Edward. But I always look after my people, no matter how much guidance they need."

_My people._

_ Mine._

"Go on inside, Alphonse," Mustang murmured, knocking his knuckles gently against Al's armor. "I'd like to speak to your father alone, and I believe Miss Rockbell was looking for you."

"Um." Al almost didn't want to move, not away from that warm and welcoming hand. But the Colonel's eyes were serious, and set. "Sure, okay. Thanks, Colonel."

Both men waited until Al had scooted back inside the doorway before speaking. But as the door shut at his back, Al heard his father's voice.

"You've taken my sons from me, Mustang."

Al paused, stricken. He didn't want his dad to hurt, still wanted to know the man responsible for his existence. His dad didn't sound angry, more resigned, and maybe sad, but still…

"You gave them to my care yourself, Hohenheim," Mustang countered quietly.

And that warm feeling was back, filling Al's armor, heavy and swollen. Because neither man was referring to Edward alone.

_Sons. Them._

Plural.

_I belong here, too._

_..._

__A/N: An anonymous reviewer asked to see Mustang parenting Al, as well as Ed. The idea tickled my writing fancy. Hope this is what you were after, Anon! I love you muchly, in spite of your lack of name! :) Happy Reading!


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Boom. Two posts in a week. IS THIS REAL LIFE? Hello again, friends! I had some requests after the last Daily for some injury reactions from Ed and Roy, and the idea tripped my writing trigger (ignore the paper airplanes...I know they're not canon BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T HAVE AIRPLANES but I needed them). Also, if you're a Naruto fan, feel free to wander over and take a look at the new story I've started, called "Ricochet". My Naruto voice is...out of control. He has no filter. I snort and laugh while writing him. I guess that's warning enough. _

_As always, my love for you is eternal and unending! Thanks for sticking with this story for so long! Hearts!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, and am making no money from this story.  
_

**Never Not So**

He knew he was in a hospital bed before he even opened his eyes. The smell was unmistakable (disinfectant, and what he sort of assumed was the scent of souls being trampled by painfully white walls) and the bed was too stiff to be anything other than something hooked up to a million tubes and wires.

So, hospital. And if he hadn't had the smell and rock-like mattress to tip him off, he probably would have reached the same conclusion due to the fact that _everything everywhere hurt. _

"Ack," he said, without opening his eyes. Because he wasn't one hundred percent sure that wouldn't eject themselves screaming from his skull if he tried. "What the _hell_. Was there a bear? Please tell me there was a bear."

"Seriously, Fullmetal? You fight a lot of woodland creatures in your free time?"

Oh, look. Now his _eardrums_ were hurting too. How magical.

"Noooo," he moaned. "Why are you here? If you're here to wring your hands at my bedside, I have to tell you two things. One: that makes me uncomfortable as your subordinate, and not just because one little slip of your hands could light my face on fire. Two: If you're actually here instead of muffling manly tears into Hawkeye's shoulder like I know you do all the other times I end up hurt, I must be actually about to die or something. And I really don't want you to be the last thing I see. So. Go away now."

"You're so much more fun to be around when you're not talking," Mustang said pleasantly.

Edward growled a little, and then stopped because his throat felt like sandpaper. Cautiously, he squinted open one eye, and when it didn't immediately immolate his socket, he blinked himself back into awareness.

"What happened?" he asked, glancing down at his own sheet-covered frame. Already, he could feel the heavy tug of plaster, and that never boded well.

"You broke your human arm," Mustang said. "And gave yourself a concussion. Which is impressive, because I didn't think anything could actually dent that thick skull of yours. Also, you're bruised pretty much everywhere, and there was some talk of internal bleeding. Which may be why it probably feels like somebody took a pogo stick to your insides."

"You're so poetic, so lyrical," Ed sneered, even as he secretly admitted that it was a fairly accurate metaphor. "I see now why women risk _so many diseases_ just to be close to you. Also, both of my arms are human arms. You ass."

"Charming. Also, before you ask, your brother is out in the hallway with Hawkeye, talking to the doctors."

Ed, who would never admit that he'd been about to ask now that Mustang had called him on it, nodded.

"And they left you to babysit me?" he asked. "Great. Still doesn't explain why you're at the hospital in the first place."

He turned his head, now that he was reasonably sure that he could muster up a decent sneer. Only to discover that Mustang wasn't standing at his bedside, wringing his hands and weeping manly tears.

He was _in the bed_. The bed _next to Edward's_.

What?

"Bastard, if you're trying to seduce the nursing staff by throwing yourself all over the bed, I will _actually kill you_."

"Oh, sure. This gaping hole in my shoulder, all wrapped in bandages? It's the seduction tool of _legends_."

Edward sat up so fast that several areas of his body screamed obscenities in unison. But once the pretty little stars and sailor language cleared out from around his head, he was able to take in Mustang's prone form. He was pretty well covered by his blankets, but Ed could see the absolute lack of color in his face, the deep purple bags under his eyes, and the thick packing of bandages wrapped underneath his thin hospital shirt.

"You," he started. "What…?" But then several images flashed in front of his eyes at once.

_"Seriously, why are you here?"_

_ "I know you, Edward. Your brother is across town running errands with Hawkeye. The rest of the team is out drilling the new recruits for the Fuhrer. And this is the first clue you've picked up in a while. If someone doesn't tag along to watch your back, you'll frolic your way into your very own death scene."_

_ "Bastard. I don't frolic. And I'm not looking out for you, okay? This is important, and I can't waste time taking care of your geriatric ass."_

_ "I never thought you would."_

_ The old, broken down church on the outskirts of Central had looked abandoned. Should have been abandoned; the painted windows had been smashed and the trinkets taken ages ago. All Ed was looking for was the library; few thieves thought to take the books as well. _

_ Of course, that wasn't what they'd found inside._

Mustang's eyes were blank. Expressionless. Totally calm as he watched the rage creep its way across Edward's face.

"You are _so stupid_ and I am going to-" Edward started to hiss, but the opening door drowned out the rest of his obviously winning death threat.

"Brother!" Alphonse said, easing his large metal frame through the door. "You're awake!"

"Hey, Al," Edward said, shooting one last poisonous glare in the Colonel's direction before easing himself back onto the bed. "Yeah, I'm up. I'm fine."

"No!" the younger Elric disagreed cheerfully. "You're not fine; you're an idiot and once you're well again, I'm probably going to punch you in the face!"

"Bwuh," Edward said blankly, and refused to turn his head even a little bit, because he _just knew_ that bastard was smirking over the similar theme of Elric violence.

"Brother, _why didn't you wait for me_?" Alphonse continued, less cheerfully murderous now, and just _murderous _instead. "I know you would have gone alone if the Colonel hadn't caught you leaving."

Ed squirmed in his hospital bed (and quickly decided that sheepish gestures were also on the list of things that caused his body to consider mutiny).

"I just wanted to check it out, Al," he said. "Before we lost any more time. It's not a big deal."

"Gonna have to disagree with you there, Boss," Havoc said, stepping into the room and up to Al's side. "That hospital bed you're lying on sort of throws a wrench in your argument."

"It was just an abandoned church!" Ed protested. "I didn't know it was going to be dangerous or anything."

Alphonse's giant hands curled into fists, and Ed took momentary comfort in the fact that his baby brother probably wouldn't try to hit him until the cast came off.

Probably.

"Of course it was dangerous," Al said. "_You were there_. It could have been a harmless building full of fluffy kittens before you showed up. It _still_ would have tried to kill you when you got there, Brother. Because _that is just how things happen when you are around_."

"Point," Havoc and Mustang said.

"Look, Al. I'm sorry, okay?" he said it quickly, because even though he could always say the words to his baby brother (who deserved apologies from him until his tongue shriveled up and fell out of his mouth) the bastard was still present and Ed was on a personal mission to never say it to him, ever. "Next time, I'll wait for you. We'll go together. Although, the only place I want us to go right now is somewhere with a bed. Can we head back to the dorms?"

"What?" Al said, a little softer now that Ed had admitted his wrongs. "Brother, you can't go anywhere. You're hurt. You're bruised inside. They need to keep you here for a couple of days to make sure it doesn't turn into something worse."

"Aw, come on Al. You know how much I hate hospitals. I promise I'll sleep and stuff if you take me out of here."

Havoc leaned over and tapped his nose. Ed briefly considered biting him.

"It's really cute how you think we'll actually believe that, Boss," he said. "We all know you. The second you've gotten a little sleep and some food, you'll be crunched up in the library. Or out exploring that abandoned church again."

"No I…won't?"

"Brother. Wrong punctuation."

Ed folded his arms (carefully, because one was metal and one was covered in a heavy white cast…judging from the look on Havoc's face, he looked pretty hilarious) and sulked.

"I'm guessing I have to stay as well?" Mustang asked from the other bed.

"You've got a hole in your shoulder, Colonel," Havoc answered. "They missed all your important bits, but yeah. It warrants you a little Hospital Vacation."

Mustang sighed. Edward flinched. He could feel Alphonse staring at him (with non-existent eyes…his brother was _talented_) and so he turned his face away.

"Fine," Mustang said. "Please have the hospital staff make up a private room."

"Nope," Havoc said, and the unholy glee saturating that one word brought Edward's face back from the perusal of the wall.

"What d'you mean, _nope_?" Ed repeated. "I have to stay a few days. Bastard has to stay a few days. We can't share, in _any_ meaning of the word, so hurry up and wheel him out of here before I hit him with my cast."

Al curled his giant fingers around Ed's plastered wrist, as if to prevent any cast-hitting.

"I'm sorry, Brother," he said. "But the hospital's all full. They don't have any open rooms, not even for high ranking military officers. And because they brought you and the Colonel in together, you get to share a room."

" 'Get to'," Ed breathed, voice gone soft with horror. "Al. _Alphonse_. Why are you making it sound like this is a reward? Do you want me to cry?"

"I have _so much money_ riding on this," Havoc said, practically spinning in his excitement. "Fuery's riding on you guys working out your differences and emerging from this hospital all respectful and stuff."

"Fuery is going to get murdered someday," Mustang said, eyes squeezed shut against what appeared to be great emotional pain. "By something fluffy and warm. Shot in the chest by a puppy with a sob story, that's what's going to happen."

"Al," Ed said, and grabbed desperately at his brother's hand with his uninjured arm. "I promise. I swear. If you get me out of this, I'll do everything you say. I'll take naps. I'll eat soup. I'll _drink milk_, Alphonse. Just don't leave me here with him."

Alphonse laughed, and patted at his brother's hand.

"Don't worry, Brother. Who knows? Maybe you and the Colonel really can get to know each other a little better."

In the middle of the room, Havoc started laughing hard enough to do a little internal bruising of his own, and Mustang looked like he was seriously contemplating knocking himself unconscious with the bedpan.

…

_Day One_

"Fullmetal. I'm telling you this in all seriousness. I respect you as an alchemist…occasionally. And as a soldier…almost never. But you should know that if you try to take my pudding cup one more time, I will have Hawkeye shoot you in the face."

"….Seriously, Bastard? _That's_ your moral line? Murder is justified in the face of stolen snacks?"

"Chocolate pudding is not a snack, Edward. It's a serious business."

"You are a terrible person."

"Insult me all you want. Just stay away from my pudding cup."

….

Edward woke to the taste of his own blood in his mouth, and the feel of his heart trying to pump its way out of his chest. Breath tearing, lungs screaming, he shot upwards in his bed, and immediately let out a half-scream of pain and surprise as the state of his body shrieked its way back inside his nightmare-crowded brain.

Dimly, he was aware of the rustling in the bed beside him. But he was too busy trying to regulate his breathing in a way that didn't make his bruised lungs ache inside his chest to notice, or care. He dropped his sweaty forehead into the palm of his automail hand, only to hiss and jerk back as the concussion on his head made its presence known.

He almost screamed again, when the lights flipped on. He wasn't back from the nightmare place yet, the visions in his head were too real, the adrenaline in his blood too raw. He crowded back against his mattress, automail hand curling into a tight fist, teeth bared at the nurse that rushed to his bedside.

"Mr. Elric," she said, hands fluttering gently as she checked his cast, his bandages. "I heard a noise. What is it? Are you in pain?"

Ed struggled to absorb her words, to uncurl his fist, to understand her as something non-threatening. But it was hard, so hard, with so much screaming still ringing inside his skull.

"Mr. Elric?" she repeated, and glanced toward the door. To get a doctor, Ed realized numbly. Because she thought he was in pain, going into shock. Broken and weaker than he already was.

"He's fine," another voice said, and Ed gasped at the familiarity of it. "It's my fault. I was giving him a hard time. He got a little riled up."

"Oh," the nurse said, turning towards the other bed, and it was obvious that she didn't believe the bastard. The doubt weighed down her voice like rocks in water. "Well. I suppose, if you say so, Colonel."

"Yes. Thank you for coming to check."

"Can I get you anything while I'm here?"

"I think my water pitcher is empty, and I'm feeling a little dry. If it's not too much trouble?"

"Of course."

As she left, Edward curled his uninjured fingers in the sheets, and breathed. After a while, he laid back down on his side. No big deal. It happened sometimes, especially when he was sleeping in an unfamiliar bed (which really sucked, because so many of the beds were unfamiliar nowadays).

The nurse came back after a bit, and Edward fell asleep to the sound of Mustang's voice, thanking her for the service.

….

_Day Two_

"Bored. So, _so_ bored."

"I'm not here to entertain you, Fullmetal."

"Don't I know it. You couldn't keep my attention if you tried."

"Trust me. All the times you dozed off during debriefings? Got that message across quite effectively."

Ed tapped his automail fingers against the metal rail of his bed, filling the air with a soft pinging sound, and wondered if it was possible to actually expire from inactivity.

"I'm going to gnaw my own cast off," he decided.

"Your bone is broken in three places."

"Gnaw it off and _burn it_." Ed nodded. "Itches."

"Ask them for a book, Fullmetal," Mustang said, and then went back to silently communing with his own inner Bastardry, or whatever the hell he was doing over there.

After a while, he did.

They brought him a coloring book, and crayons.

Mustang laughed so hard, and struggled so valiantly to keep it silent, that he almost suffocated.

It started as revenge. Ed tore one of the coloring book pages out of the book (scowling at it as he did so) and folded it into a fairly basic paper airplane, which he then launched at the Colonel's bed.

A few minutes later, the plane came sailing back, re-folded into a much fancier model. It bopped Edward right in the mouth. He stared at it for a minute, his lips curling into what Alphonse called his 'Crazy-making-explosions-will-happen' smile, before ripping another page out of the coloring book.

By the time Hawkeye walked in, carrying a stack of paperwork for the Colonel to peruse, alchemically enabled paper airplanes were rocketing from Edward's bed to the Colonel's, who proceeded to blow them up with a simple snap of his fingers (he'd sweet-talked his alchemy gloves out of the nurses within one hour of his hospital vacation…Ed suspected he slept with them under his pillow). Ed was cackling, golden eyes bright and giddy, looking all the world like a typical fifteen year old boy. Mustang wasn't laughing, but the smirk curling his lips reeked of adolescent arrogance.

Hawkeye almost hesitated to put a stop to it. She briefly considered easing back out of the room. They were laughing and smiling, after all, and no one was bleeding yet. But Edward's planes were getting more and more ambitious and aggressive, and the Colonel's flames were getting bigger every time the younger alchemist let out a whoop of glee. And Hawkeye was well acquainted with the consequences of letting two bored geniuses play with their powers for too long (it had taken days to convince the secretaries to come back to their desks, and had only been ultimately accomplished by Hawkeye swearing up and down that the Colonel would _never_ aid his subordinates in practical jokes ever again).

So she stepped forward and said, "Sir," in her blandest, blankest voice.

Both alchemists flinched, and the paper airplanes went crashing to the floor.

"Lieutenant," Mustang said, with what he probably thought was a charming smile. Hawkeye ignored it, and paid attention to the mild panic in his eyes instead.

Edward decided that abandoning the field altogether was the better option, and burrowed under his covers for a really heroic attempt at feigning sleep.

"I see you've recovered enough to utilize your free time, Colonel," Hawkeye said, calmly dragging the visitor's chair up to his bedside.

"Um."

"Allow me to fill it with more productive means."

She dropped a stack of papers on the sheets, and Mustang sighed, already reaching forward (carefully, so as not to pull his bandages) for a pen.

And if she let him nod off after signing only a small amount, it was only because she hated seeing those dark eyes so exhausted, that clever mouth tight with pain he'd never admit to, those straight shoulders slumped.

And maybe just a little bit because he'd looked so young, for a change, blasting Edward's paper airplanes out of the sky.

….

The second night, Edward woke just as violently, but with a different kind of terror beating inside his blood. He hadn't dreamed of monsters this time, or his mother's face. He'd dreamed of recent and real-life horror instead.

_He hadn't been expecting the crumbling church to still be occupied. And they'd trained themselves to be quiet, so quiet and still, that Ed never knew they were there for sure, nothing beyond the faint burning of 'wrong' inside his brain, until he'd felt the hard crunch of a metal pipe meeting his good arm. _

_ To his dying day, he'd deny the sound that came out of his mouth as he felt his bones snap. Especially because the Bastard Colonel was present, and because he was already furious with himself, even as he crumpled forward, for allowing them to take him by surprise. _

_ "Fullmetal!" he heard, and then the Colonel was there, kneeling on the stones in front of him. "What is it?"_

_ "Someone's here," he said through gritted teeth, because the pain was curling at the edges of his vision, sickly green and orange. "Broke my arm, I think. You should go, get help."_

_ "Wow, you're stupid when you're injured," Mustang snapped, and Ed rocked back a little on his knees, because that looked an awful lot like fury in the Colonel's eyes. "Just a lot dumber than normal, even. Can you stand?"_

_ It wasn't easy, or pleasant. Ed was used to all kinds of hurts, but broken things were a bit more foreign, because two of his limbs were metal, and he tended to throw those first in a fight. By the time Mustang got Ed on his feet, his braid was damp with sweat, and his jaw ached from clenching back cries and curse words. _

_ "I'm going to kick your ass," Mustang hissed, as he helped Ed hobble down the hall, dark eyes scanning the shadows furiously, one hand kept free with fingers at the ready. "Because you're stupid. And short. But mostly stupid. A tiny, stupid person who walks into church traps and breaks his limbs."_

_ "Asshole," Ed gasped, because every step on the uneven stones jarred his arm, and so his bantering skills weren't quite up to par. _

_ "You can't have the secrets," a voice that wasn't theirs whispered from the dark, and then Mustang was shoving Ed out of the way and following him down, landing on top of him on the cobbled floor. _

_ Ed didn't hear the bang, because he'd both landed on his broken arm and rapped his head against the stones. Sweat burned hot on his skin, which felt cold and empty, grey clouds danced at the edge of his vision, and nausea curled at the back of his tongue. _

_ But he came back to himself, because the warm wetness staining the back of his jacket wasn't his own. _

_ Later, after the rescue, and the hospital, Havoc will tell him without a hint of laughter in his voice that when they found them at the church, Ed was standing protectively over Mustang's unconscious body, covered in the Colonel's blood and staring with blank eyes at the struggling bodies he'd pinned with slowly tightening stone fists. _

Back in the present, Ed pressed his automail palm to his eyes, carefully avoiding the bandages wrapped around his head. The room was dark, and quiet, but he knew he wasn't the only one awake.

"I never asked you to take that bullet," he said softly. "I didn't _want_ you to."

"I know that, Edward," came the answer from the other bed, just as soft.

Silence. After a while, Edward eased himself back down, resting his head back against the pillows.

They'll never speak of it again, he knew. Never again acknowledge it under the cover of darkness and dead air, and certainly never bring it up in the light of day.

But still, he fell asleep a little easier, because hearing the Bastard breathe from the bed over, for the moment, seemed to be the remedy to his nightmares.

…

_Day Three_

"Clothes are amazing. Clothes are wonderful. Do you want me to tell you how good clothes feel, Colonel Bastard, since you can't have any of your own?"

Mustang sighed at the glee in Edward's golden eyes, so happy to be out of bed and back in clothes while Mustang himself remained wrapped in thin pajamas and hospital sheets.

"Gloat all you want, Fullmetal," he said. "The way I see it, they're letting you out early because your wounds are just so…insignificant when compared to mine."

The boy was across the room immediately, moving impressively fast for someone with a broken arm, a concussion, and skin that looked like a black and purple finger painting.

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO TINY HE GETS CARTOON BANDAIDS, YOU BASTARD?"

"Brother," Alphonse sighed, walking into the room to find Edward glaring, and Mustang fighting back a victorious smirk. "The doctor said I could take you back, but only if you _promised_ to rest and relax until your hurts healed."

"I'm healing," Ed insisted, still making ninja hand gestures at Mustang's bed with his good arm. "This is very therapeutic, Al."

"I really, really don't believe you, Brother. Come on. The Colonel needs to rest, and I want to get some food in you before your nap."

"My nap? My _nap_?"

"Uh-huh. Oh, and the nurses said you enjoyed the coloring book they gave you, so I picked some up! You can have one to work on after you sleep."

Ed made garbled vowel sounds of revenge and anguish at his brother's back as Al led the way out of the room.

"Enjoy your recovery, Fullmetal," Mustang said, smirk still going strong. "It sounds so…exhilarating. And appropriate."

Edward bared his teeth.

"Whatever, Bastard," he said. "Enjoy your _hospital room_."

His exit might have been more impressive, had he not been walking like a duck due to bruising and two heavy arms.

Mustang collapsed back against his pillows, letting the first grimace of actual discomfort cross his face now that Edward was out of the room. His shoulder _hurt_. And the healing skin was itching something horrible.

After a while, the nurse came in with his lunch tray. Mustang sat himself up as best he could, only to quirk an eyebrow at what he saw.

"What'd I do to earn an extra pudding cup?" he said, and flashed a charming smile at the fluttering nurse.

She blushed, and smiled prettily.

"Oh," she said. "Well, nothing, I suppose. It wasn't my idea. The boy you were rooming with gave it to me yesterday, the pudding cup off of his plate. Said that he didn't want it, didn't care much for sweets, but said that he saw that you liked them, and you looked pale enough to eat more sugar anyway." She beamed, arranging the extra chocolate pudding cup on his plate like a prize. "Isn't that sweet? Just the nicest thing?"

Mustang reached out to touch it with gentle fingers, and didn't answer.

But months later, when Riza was digging around in his desk for some lost (read: abandoned) paperwork, she came across a chocolate pudding cup, still sealed and covered with dust, hidden away in the bottom drawer.

...

_A/N: Um. I meant this to be funny? And then the fluff rained down, and drowned me. Hope you enjoyed anyway. Happy Reading!_


	30. Chapter 30

****_A/N: Hello friends! Sorry for the delay, other readers already know that my life has been consumed by training for my new job. However, rest assured that I have no plans to abandon this series, and if i did, I would always let you guys know so that we celebrate its send-off with a bang! The response for this story has been too amazing to do otherwise, and I appreciate every one of you that continues to follow, favorite, and review this series. You guys rock so hard!  
_

_Also, I have no idea where this plot line came from. I had so much fun in Chapter 22, experimenting with outside perspectives, that I guess this just bled over. But I kind of adore the narrator that ended up being spawned, so I hope you all enjoy him as well!  
_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, and am making no money from this work.  
_

**Initiation**

On day fifteen of his captivity, they informed him that he'd be receiving a roommate.

"A brain buddy," the brawny leader had elaborated, and then laughed until the sound of it had bounced off the stone walls surrounding them.

And he was torn, spent a significant chunk of time after his captor's departure staring at his empty cell. Because he felt horrible, really, that someone else was going to be subjected to this, to being trapped inside this stone room with no windows and forced to work on something he didn't support.

But he was comforted too, that he wasn't going to be alone anymore, and experiencing that quiet relief was a million times worse than the sick regret he felt on the surface.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, an older and experienced genius maybe, to fill in the gaps in knowledge that his age created. Sure as shit he wasn't expecting the _boy_ that they shoved inside his cell.

"Um," he said, going over instinctively to help the boy to his feet. They'd pushed him through the door hard enough to send him stumbling on hands and knees, ripping his pants and bloodying his palms. "Wow, okay. So, you're like twelve."

The boy looked at him, big blue eyes hot with annoyance and face blossoming with nasty bruises, and said with great indignation, "I'm _twenty-three_."

"False," he countered without thinking, because fifteen days alone in a stone room made speaking your thoughts out loud a necessary tactic for preserving your sanity. "That's just…no way are you older than me."

The boy sighed.

"I'm used to having someone so much younger around," he said, mournfully. "So much younger, and _so much _louder, and the rest of us sort of go unnoticed when he's around. I forgot that people tend to get distracted by my…face." He smiled then, sweet and forgiving and _shit_ was he going to die in here. "I'm Fuery. Kain Fuery; I work for the military."

He took a minute to process that, because what the hell, this guy still looked like a teenager, and then eventually replied with, "Okay. I'm Adam Cross. I, uh…don't work for the military?"

Kain Fuery laughed a little, and allowed Adam to tug him to his feet. And he really must not have been lying about the military thing, because the bruises and the blood appeared not to bother him at all.

"But you do something," he said. "Or else you wouldn't be here, right?"

"I'm a student," Adam said. "In my last year at the University in Central. Engineering."

Fuery nodded.

"That makes sense," he said, taking in the stone walls around them, the sleeping pallets shoved against the wall, and the table in the center of the cell, covered in parts and wires.

"Did they tell you why we're here?" Adam asked.

Fuery shrugged.

"Not really," he said. "But people only tend to kidnap me for one reason, so."

What?

"Have…have you been kidnapped enough times for there to be a list?"

Fuery shrugged again.

"Not really a list," he said. "I told you, people only seem to want me for one reason. The Colonel, he gets a list. And Edward, people love to kidnap Edward. We have a chart in the office."

Adam stared.

"It's color-coded," Fuery added with a smile, like this was a _normal conversation to be having_.

Adam wanted to laugh. Or maybe cry. He hadn't really been sleeping; it was sort of hard to tell.

"So, we're building taps," Fuery said, after walking to the table and staring at its contents for roughly thirty seconds. "Bugs for phones and buildings, new ones that the people we're tapping won't be able to recognize, right?"

"Oh," Adam said. "Okay, you're a genius. That's why they kidnapped you."

"I'm not a genius," Fuery said absently, running his fingers over a clump of exposed wires. "I have a skill set. I know geniuses though, I'll introduce you."

"You…will?"

"Sure," Fuery said. "They'll be in the group that comes to get us."

Adam sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Which was a bad idea, because it was sticky and dirty and he wanted a shower like breathing.

"I don't know," he said, slowly because he didn't want to crush this Fuery guy's hopes. "I mean, I thought someone might come looking for me. But it's been two weeks, and I'm still here."

The look Fuery gave him was made of sympathy.

"I'm sorry," he said, sweetly. "That must have been horrible. Probably the best case scenario then, me getting kidnapped. We'll get you out for sure."

We. _We'll_ get you out. Like Fuery wasn't stuck inside the same stone cell as Adam. Like he wasn't covered by bruises courtesy of the guys that had kidnapped them. Like he had absolute faith in his group of military buddies that were apparently _really good_ at getting kidnapped.

Sure. Okay.

Fuck his life _so hard_.

….

"It's not like we try to get kidnapped," Fuery explained over the work table the next morning, after a night spent shivering on separate sleeping pallets. "It just sort of happens. To all of us. A lot."

"Uh-huh," Adam said, filthy glasses stuck to his face as he banged away at the nearest radio box.

Fuery was smiling brightly through a still-bruised face and casually stripping wires with a speed that left Adam blinking. So he figured it might be best to just…not engage.

"Except Hawkeye," Fuery added, bundling his wires and setting them aside. "I mean, they tried once. Took her because she's so close to the Colonel. It…ah. It didn't end well."

Adam's eye twitched.

"She sort of…walked away from it. With the handcuffs still attached. Walked into the office and gave us the address. There may have been citations for excessive force." Fuery reached for a new set of wires. "I don't think they were ever filed, though."

"Great," Adam said, and hoped Fuery couldn't hear the very obvious _what the hell_ in his voice.

"There haven't been any attempts, after that," Fuery continued. "Although, the building that she was held in burning down afterward may have had something to do with that."

"Oh my _God_," Adam said, closing his eyes and forgetting his non-engagement completely. Because _how was this someone's life_?

"They never proved that it was the Colonel," Fuery said soothingly. "Just, you know. Nobody kidnaps Hawkeye anymore."

Adam may have made a sound sort of like dying, but he really wasn't going to admit that out loud.

And then the door to their cell burst open, and the leader of the men who'd kidnapped them, a thickly muscled man who went by Whip, marched in.

"Gentlemen," he said, in a voice too cultured for his burly frame. Adam hated it. It sounded like oil, smooth and dirty. "Working away, I see."

Adam fixed his hands on his radio box, and refused to answer. Answering ended up in fists coming at his face, or his back, and Adam wasn't like Fuery. Wasn't trained to deal with that.

"I'm glad to see you've adjusted to efficiency so quickly, Mister Fuery," Whip added, arms folded across his chest. "Care to update me on your progress?"

"Sure," Fuery said brightly. "I'm stripping these wires."

"And what purpose will that serve?"

"Makes them unusable," Fuery said, severing wires even as he spoke, smile soft and small and unrepentant.

Whip's face went as dark as storm clouds. The fist to Fuery's face was short and brutal, buckling the guy over the table. Adam's hands went tight around his radio box, and his heart pounded thick and heavy in his throat.

"Your cooperation would be appreciated, Master Sergeant," Whip said quietly. "We put a great deal of time and effort into recruiting you to join young Mr. Cross."

Fuery coughed blood against the table, pulled from his newly ruined mouth, and said nothing at all.

"You have two hours," Whip concluded. "Show me something useable in that time, Mister Fuery, or I'll forget my promise of lenience."

He shut the door behind him without any words for Adam at all. He wasn't sure if he was grateful for it, or just stuck on horrified.

"Shit," he said, skirting the table to where Fuery was still bent over it. "Are you okay?"

Not engaging to avoid catching crazy was all well and good, but the guy was _bleeding_ on the table, had taken a truck-sized fist to the face. You didn't ignore stuff like that. Couldn't.

"Fine," Fuery said, and sighed through blood stained lips. "I really wish he would stop hitting me. The worse I look, the harder it'll be for me to keep him in one piece once the others show up."

Adam boggled. Boggled, because _priorities. _This guy had _none_.

"You…what…_seriously_?"

"I can contain Breda and Havoc. Falman, probably. Al might be able to control Ed, depending on how mad he is himself. But Hawkeye. She gets protective. Like, really quietly protective, which is so much worse than anything else."

"I…see," Adam said, a bit dizzily, as he handed Fuery a work rag to wipe his mouth with. It was stained with oil and dirt, but it was better than seeing so much red on his face.

"So, I kind of need him to stop hitting me," Fuery repeated, and tossed the rag away like his blood was nothing. "People like to hit me, especially when I'm kidnapped, because of the way I look." He smiled a little, like this was an _understandable_ thing. "But we need him not full of bullet holes if he's going to answer questions after this is over."

"Bullet holes," Adam said slowly.

"Hawkeye likes guns."

"Okay. So, I never, ever want to meet her. Ever. Fair?"

….

For two hours, Adam watched Fuery build exactly nothing useful, instead choosing to make a small tower out of the wires he'd stripped. For two hours, he felt his own anticipation build like a slow fire inside his stomach.

It roared to life, inferno style, upon the opening of the door.

Whip asked his questions, in that silky smooth voice that Adam hated like burning.

Fuery smiled a little, _apologized_ for being unable to meet Whip's demands. Stood his ground so sweetly, and Adam wanted to scream.

It was bad this time. Whip hit him way more than once, in a lot of different places, until Fuery was sprawled out across the stone floor, breathing hard. Adam was pressed against the wall, silent and sick with it, eyes huge as he studied Fuery's mottled face.

"I would suggest that you work to exert a more positive influence on the Master Sergeant, Mister Cross," Whip said, and his eyes pinned Adam in place against the stones at his back. "I'd hate for _your_ productivity to be damaged by his bad behavior."

Adam said nothing, just stared at Fuery's blood, freckling the floor.

He didn't go to him until after Whip had shut the door behind him. The shame of it, the guilt, burned in his gut like acid.

"Hey," he said, and pushed gently at Fuery's shoulders until he was resting on his back. "Hey, are you with me?"

"Uggh," Fuery answered, which was, you know. Justified.

He was breathing wrong. Cracked ribs, or broken maybe.

"You just," Adam said helplessly, fingers frozen uselessly over Fuery's battered ribs. "Can't you just…do what they say?"

There was that smile again. Gentle and soft and Adam kind of wanted to wipe it away with a fist of his own because that smile was made of _crazy_.

"Nope," he said, and coughed a little.

"_Why_?" Adam asked, and he may have wailed a little, but this guy was a mess all over the floor, and the tiny prickles of shame were going to drive him nuts before the end.

"Can't," Fuery said, and coughed again. "They never told me, but I know what they want to do with those taps. I'm military, remember? I know what a rebel faction looks like when I see it."

Adam kept quiet as he helped Fuery into a sitting position, because they'd never actually told him why they'd taken him from the dorms, and understanding didn't mean he had to commit to Fuery's crazy train.

"They want to tap the higher-ups," Fuery continued, and grimaced as his body protested the new position. "The officers of rank, the ones who make the decisions. They want to listen in on their conversations."

"Okay," Adam said. "I mean, yeah, that's bad. But come on. Whip is going to beat you bloody if you don't dance here. It's just a little talking, right?"

Fuery shook his head, and laughed a little.

"Can't," he repeated. "The Colonel. He'll tap the Colonel."

"Okay," Adam said again, because he was trying to understand, really he was, but he still felt like he wasn't getting it. "But Fuery, I'm sure the Colonel would understand. I mean, he wouldn't expect you to say no and get beaten to death, right? Can't fix it if you're dead."

"He wouldn't expect it of me," Fuery agreed. "Not really, even though he might let others think he would. But that's the whole reason _why_ I'm saying no. You see?"

Wow, he really, _really_ didn't.

"It's okay," Fuery said gently, and patted at Adam's arm. Like he was the one who needed comforting. "You don't have to understand. You're doing great."

Adam shut his eyes, and dragged Fuery over to his sleeping pallet.

….

"I handle it better than Ed," Fuery said the next morning. "Getting kidnapped."

Whip had entered the cell in the very early hours of the morning. He hadn't come alone. Adam had laid on his sleeping pallet, curled up and quaking, and listened as Whip had made his demands in that slick, slithery voice. As Fuery had calmly repeated the same word over and over. As the echo of numerous fists and feet had filled the tiny cell.

He was going to puke, he was pretty sure, once he finished making sure Fuery was okay.

"Oh?" he said, and absolutely refused to acknowledge the way his voice was shaking. He was an Engineering student, just an Engineering student, but he knew what a concussion looked like when he saw one.

"Ed's a really bad hostage," Fuery continued, and his smile was crooked due to the fact that his lip was split down one side. "I mean, we all are, but Ed just really hates it. Gets annoyed and blows things up. Probably because he gets kidnapped the most."

"Because he's special?" Adam asked, and he didn't really care (really!) but he wanted to keep Fuery talking.

"So special," Fuery agreed. "A genius. He's so young though. Shouldn't have to deal with it. Shouldn't have to deal with any of it." He sighed. "Still. It's better than the alternative."

"What's the alternative?"

"Ed's a really bad a hostage," Fuery repeated. "But he's _so much worse_ when his brother is the one that's missing."

"Well. I'm sure his brother…appreciates that." It shouldn't be a _thing_, shouldn't be something _normal_.

Fuery laughed. By the sound of it, it hurt several things inside.

"Not really," he said. "But it's what has to happen. The Colonel gets it. He knows. I don't think they ever talked about it, he and Ed, but there was a mission once, and a choice, and the Colonel let Ed get dragged away instead of Al."

Adam froze.

"He just…what?"

"Had to happen," Fuery repeated. "Al was so angry. But Ed actually let the Colonel make fun of him for like, a week after it was over, so it was the right choice."

Adam stared.

"It's a thing," Fuery elaborated. "That they do. Ed and the Colonel."

"Okay," Adam said.

"You'll see," Fuery said, a bit dreamily. "When they get here, I think you'll see it. Ed doesn't. We think the Colonel does. But I think you'll see it, because a lot of people on the outside do."

"Great," Adam said, and didn't talk about how it had already been two days, and Whip hadn't seemed worried, not concerned at all.

….

"Tell me about the rest," Adam said, a little later.

Whip had come, around lunch time. He'd broken Fuery's fingers, on his left hand. Said that if Fuery forced him to break the fingers on his right, it would signal the end of his usefulness, and Whip would get rid of him for good.

Adam had rushed him then, because apparently crazy was an _infectious_ thing. He'd gotten his very own fist to the face for his trouble.

"You shouldn't have done that," Fuery said, and he was _hilarious_ when he tried to sound stern. "You have to keep your head down, Adam. You have to let me handle this."

"Yeah, I don't know," Adam said, and laughed a little. His stomach felt light, like it was filled with bubbles. The fire was gone. "I really don't. I'm pretty sure it's your fault."

Fuery tried to frown. Adam giggled. Owned the fact that he was giggling.

Adrenaline was such a crazy bitch.

"You look like a kitten," he offered, and wondered why his adrenaline tasted a little bit like relief. "Like a _really disappointed _kitten. Tell me about the rest of your team."

Fuery blinked at him. He was having a hard time focusing, Adam could see, and his breathing was weak and reedy with pain.

"Breda," he said slowly. "Havoc. And Falman."

"Do they get kidnapped too?"

"Um," Fuery said, and shut his eyes. Adam shook him until they opened again. "Sometimes. Havoc not as much. He once _annoyed his kidnappers_ into giving him back."

Adam snorted.

"And Breda," Fuery continued. "He has this talent. He can sleep anywhere. Really annoys the people who take him hostage."

"And Falman?" Adam asked.

"Falman," Fuery repeated. "Not as often as he should, considering what he knows. But when he does get taken, it's…bad. He doesn't…handle it well. Shuts down on us for days afterward. The Colonel knows to rescue him the quickest."

"I can't decide if that's really touching or kind of a dick thing," Adam confessed.

Fuery couldn't smile, his mouth was so swollen. But it was there, in his eyes.

"No," he slurred. "It's okay. He just needs time, and space, and no missions for at least a week. We know."

"That's nice," Adam said, and tried not to look at his mangled fingers.

"You're a good kid," Fuery said. "Nice. And smart. I know you're going to do well, once we get out of here."

"Sure," Adam said.

"And you'll like Havoc and Breda," Fuery said, and he sounded soft and floaty and wrong and it was killing Adam's buzz. But the relief was still there, weirdly enough. "You'll let them corrupt you. That's fun for them."

"Sounds great," Adam said, because he could believe in the team without believing that they would come.

…

That night, Adam dismantled everything that he'd built with shaking hands and what was probably a terrifying grin.

Fuery drifted in and out of consciousness, but his eyes were warm and weirdly sad whenever he was awake.

….

"You're a jerk," Adam decided early the next day.

The cell was a mess. The work table was overturned and the sleeping pallets ripped to shreds. Whip hadn't been pleased by his discovery in the wee hours of the morning.

Adam was sprawled on the stone floor, trying to cope with the fact that everywhere on his body hurt. The pain was ringing in his ears like bells, and he was pretty sure his arm was broken, but the buzz was back as well, and he felt like laughing.

"A total jerk," he repeated to the figure sprawled out next to him.

Fuery. Who wasn't moving. Moving, speaking, or smiling anymore.

"I mean, I might have lived," he said, and he was laughing, grinning hard enough to make his abused jaw scream, but there were tears rolling down his cheeks too. "Probably not, but maybe. I would have kept my head down. But then you just had to show up with your smiles and speeches and your stupid team of stupid people who have all of these _stupid morals_, and you're just _such a jerk_, Fuery."

He'd tried to stop them. Jumped on Whip's back as soon as he'd turned on Adam. Eyes dilated from the concussion, broken hand waving like a useless thing, and he'd _still jumped_.

"Asshole," he gasped, and fumbled for Fuery's wrist when the door swung open.

"Gonna hurt," he muttered, mostly to himself, as he tried to ease his body over Fuery's. "Yep. Really gonna hurt."

He was expecting Whip. Whip, and his thug posse, and maybe some firearms. So, really, his confusion when it wasn't was completely understandable.

"Shit," he slurred, through a rapidly swelling jaw. "Another infant."

Hot golden eyes went sharp and narrow.

"Okay," the kid decided. "So, I'll hit you for that. Later." He turned toward the door. "Bastard! He's in here!"

"What," Adam decided, as more people began to flood the room.

Three men, dressed in military blues identical to Fuery's.

One kid, maybe fourteen, with a red jacket and a sneer.

One woman, gun in hand and look of mild irritation on her face.

One giant suit of armor.

"What?" Adam confirmed.

Another man, in another military uniform, knelt down at Adam's side and scanned both him and Fuery with dark eyes.

And Adam began to laugh as the pieces connected in his blurry brain. Loudly. Probably a little bit hysterically.

"You're him," he said. "You're _them_. Aren't you? The Colonel, and his team."

Dark eyes locked on his. Calculating. Scary smart. Adam might have been tempted to hide, had he not given all of his fucks already.

"Fuery talked about us," the Colonel said, with just a hint of warmth.

"Fuery is an _idiot_," Adam said earnestly, and then passed out before anyone could disagree with him.

….

He woke up in a bed. His hair was clean, he was wearing a soft set of pajamas, and every inch of him felt wrapped in bandages.

A vast improvement over his previous living condition.

"Garrrgh," he offered, throat sticky and sore, and then jumped like a tiny child when a glass of water appeared underneath his nose.

"Here," the woman with the blank face and the large firearm said.

Adam took a small sip, because like hell he was going to do anything opposite of what she told him, eyes wide and fixed.

"Please don't shoot me," he croaked, once the glass was taken away.

A tiny smile curved her lips. He wasn't sure whether to interpret that as a positive or negative reaction, and so settled on maintaining his state of mild terror.

"Fuery," he whispered, because he might have been terrified, but he also _had to know_. "Is he…he wasn't moving. He wasn't moving, and he stopped smiling, so something had to be wrong. Where is he?"

For a moment, the woman considered him out of serene sherry colored eyes.

"Fuery is alive," she finally said. "Recovering. He was injured, but he'll be all right."

Relief sprinted up Adam's spine, and he relaxed against his pillowcase.

"Good," he said. "That's good." He cracked one eye open hesitantly. "He said you would come for us."

The woman-Hawkeye, Fuery said her name was Hawkeye and that nobody kidnapped her anymore because buildings were burned down when they tried-tilted her head.

"And you didn't think we would?" she asked softly.

Adam tried for a shrug. Immediately regretted it.

"Well, I didn't know," he said. "I didn't know you."

"And now that you've been introduced?"

Adam laughed. It made his throat hurt.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you were always going to come." He let his head loll back, exhausted. "Fuery's still an idiot, though. You can shoot me if you want. I stand by that."

Something like consternation crossed Hawkeye's face.

"No one is arguing with you," she murmured, and surprised another laugh out of Adam.

The sound of wheels interrupted the quiet of the room, and Adam sat straight up (painfully) in his bed as Fuery was wheeled into the room, pushed by one of the three military men Adam had seen in the cell.

"He wouldn't sleep," the man said, soundly mildly harassed. "Not without seeing you."

"Adam!" Fuery said, and his eyes were bright again, his smile there underneath the bruises and the swelling. "You're okay!"

"Go to bed," Adam countered through a tight throat. "You look like shit."

The man pushing Fuery's chair laughed. Fuery huffed.

"I knew that you and Havoc would get along," he grumped.

"Hey, make some room, would you?" Another voice rang out from the hallway. "Let the rest of us through!"

They spilled through the doorway. All of them. The two other men in the military uniforms. The boy in the bright red coat, and the armored man. Even the Colonel, eyes as dark and smart as Adam remembered.

"Nice to see you're doing better," the armor said in a surprisingly sweet voice.

"Ah," Adam said. "Thanks?"

"Why'd they snatch you?" one of the men asked. He was talking, and flanking Havoc's side, so Adam assumed he was Breda. "I mean, you're just a kid."

"I'm a student," Adam said. "At the university. An Engineering student."

"He's a _student_," the boy in the red coat, must be Ed, smirked. "And he called me young."

"Really, Fullmetal?" the Colonel asked, and that was a smirk on his face, Adam was sure, even though it wasn't really visible. "_Really_?"

"Bastard!" Ed snapped back.

"Oh," Adam said. "That's the thing."

Fuery started to laugh.

"Adam's very smart!" he chirped, because he was an _idiot_. "He built some really advanced taps, with really crude materials. I was sad that we had to dismantle them. I would have loved to study them!"

"Priorities, Fuery," the one Adam assumed was Falman said, looking pained, and Adam wanted to fist pump, because _no kidding_.

"Smart," the Colonel repeated, eyes narrowed. Adam kind of wanted to disappear. Because he knew the Colonel was calculating that Adam had not only built the taps, but then taken them apart upon Fuery's arrival. "Tell me, what are your plans for graduation, Adam?"

"No," Adam said immediately, even though it was probably really rude, and Hawkeye was still totally within firing distance. "Yeah, sorry Sir. But no. I don't care how awesome your team is, or that you apparently have geniuses on board, or that you apparently inspire enough loyalty that a guy would rather die than tap your office. You also have a _kidnapping chart_ inside your office, and I just. Never, ever want to do this again. Okay?"

There was a beat of silence as everyone stared and Adam actually started to get nervous about that shooting thing.

But then, Ed started to laugh, loud and long.

"Shit," he snickered. "_That's what I should have said_."

And then Fuery was laughing, and Havoc, and Breda, and the suit of armor in the corner. And the Colonel was looking at him with something like respect, and a knowing that, yeah, Adam wasn't going to acknowledge.

He finally let himself relax, feeling safe and strangely warm in this room full of laughter.

And if he kept the information packet that Hawkeye gave him later, well, the Colonel didn't need to know just yet.


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: Holy crap, I'm back! Apologies, everyone, but those of you who read my other work know that my new job has been demanding a truly ridiculous amount of my time. But I'm excited to be back, and posting for you guys again! I'll try to keep my updates more frequent, promise!  
_

_This chapter is a gift for all of you who asked to see the story behind Fuery's line in the last chapter about there being a choice between Elric kidnappings, and Mustang letting Ed go instead of Al. As always, I love to see requests in the reviews! They give me food for thought, even if I can't get to them all.  
_

_Thanks, as ever, to those of you who continue to read this story. I have tremendous love for you all!  
_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, and am making no money from this work.  
_

**Switcheroo**

Never let it be said that Roy Mustang wasn't a learning man. For all that he seemed so set in his ways, the true heart of his successful manipulation was adaptability. Which was why, four hours into a hostage situation that had his entire office on lockdown, he started taking mental notes the minute Havoc dragged Edward through the door.

"Your turn," Havoc said, and there was a bruise under his right eye, just beginning to swell.

Edward, who Havoc was holding by the braid, managed to hiss his irritation and radiate embarrassed shame at the exact same time. It was actually a really impressive display of emotional duality.

"Get a fist to the face, Lieutenant?" Mustang asked, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

"Well," Havoc said, as Edward elbowed him off and sulked his way toward Mustang's couch. "Not an automail fist, so that's something, I guess." Havoc's face softened as he watched Edward settle for exactly twelve seconds before springing back to his feet and stalking toward the office window instead. "I mean, I get it. No one's asking him to hold it together, really. But, still. Fist to the face. Automatically equals your turn, Colonel."

"It's fine," Mustang said, one eye on Havoc, and one already sliding to where Edward was standing, locked down tight with tension. "I've got him. Go ice that eye, Lieutenant."

"Sir," Havoc said, and Edward didn't even snort a little bit, which meant things were worse than Mustang had been prepping for.

A long, and terribly loud silence filled the room as Mustang pretended he wasn't watching Edward's body vibrate with desperation and Ed gave exactly zero shits about anything at all.

"He is invulnerable," Mustang finally said, soft and almost bored as he sorted through the papers on his desk. Without seeing them. "To an extent, he can't be hurt."

Edward's shoulders snapped tight like bullets hitting walls.

"Only if they don't know," he tossed back. "He's only invulnerable if they don't know our secret, and who the hell would kidnap him if they didn't?"

"You're an infamous alchemist, Fullmetal. Everybody knows who you are, and how the armor that follows you around is important. A bad guy doesn't need to know your secret to know how to hurt you most."

Ed hissed out an impatient breath. His clenched fist tapped restlessly at Mustang's window.

"Yeah, but what happens when they yank off his helmet and see what's missing?" he asked. "Bad guys aren't _stupid_, Bastard, otherwise we'd catch a lot more of them."

"You have to trust that Alphonse can take care of himself."

"He shouldn't have to. That's my job; it's always been my job."

Mustang didn't turn around. Because this was the kind of conversation that was always lurking beneath the surface between the Elric boys, and of course only a dangerous situation could beat back Edward's emotional allergy long enough for it to bubble to the surface.

"I bet he would say it isn't," Mustang offered, voice carefully neutral.

Ed's fist hit the window a little harder, coaxed a startled groan out of the glass.

"Doesn't matter," he said back, voice as stretched and strained as the window panes. "Doesn't matter, because it _is_."

And then he fell silent, save for the relentless tapping of his fists against the glass, and Mustang couldn't get another word out of him. Couldn't get past the potential horrors sparking behind Ed's eyes long enough to shove some sense into the thick skull they resided in.

"Watch him," he said to Riza, long after Ed had given up his tapping and taken himself to bed. "Something's wrong, something's _broken_."

"He seemed all right, Sir," Riza returned, mild confusion furrowing her brow. "A little quieter than usual, but I don't think that's unexpected, given the circumstances."

Mustang shook his head.

"No, that's not…" he trailed off, shook his head, frustrated by the fact that they hadn't seen what he saw. "He's not okay. Where's the screaming, the swearing, the stomping? Whenever he gets taken hostage, we find him by the trail of things blown sky high by his obnoxious little hands."

"A truth you scold him for, every single time," Riza pointed out, voice as dry as dust.

"Yeah, whatever, government funding is not unlimited."

"Sir. We heard you laughing, that time that Edward blew up the statue of General Yu. You closed the office door, but we could still _hear you_."

"I'm certain that I have no idea what you're talking about. And on a completely unrelated note, blowing up statues is a lot less funny once the paperwork arrives. Even if Fullmetal has a special talent for the creative destruction of inappropriate public figures."

Riza's sigh implied her deep and abiding regret for ever signing on to work with a team of boys.

"Where do you want me tonight?" she asked.

Mustang shrugged.

"Outside his door," he said. "Or maybe his window. Any potential exits, but you still need to be able to hear him, Hawkeye."

"Hear him, Sir?"

"Hear him," Mustang agreed, and there was absolutely nothing like humor in his face as he said it.

That night, Edward's screams woke half the dormitory. Thankfully, Lieutenant Hawkeye was walking nearby and was able to get inside and wake Fullmetal from his nightmare before anyone else could sneak in and see the vulnerability on his face.

….

Edward's eyes were sunken the next day, and his lips bitten to ribbons. There was still no sign of Alphonse, but this time Ed refused to confine himself to Mustang's office. Instead, he holed himself up inside the library, and emerged eight hours later, looking furious and fueled, his eyes wild and his fingers stained with ink.

That night, Major Armstrong caught him trying to sneak out of the dormitories, and watched, for once silent and sparkle-free, as Edward spilled out his desperate and half-deranged action plan in a series of furious rants. His eyes sparked strangely serious as he deposited the furious alchemist on Mustang's office doorstep.

"He's angry," Armstrong observed, as Mustang herded Edward toward the couch with a single iron-clad glare.

"And not in the normal way," the Colonel added. "Not in a way that can be used, or channeled, or made productive. His tunnel vision is getting tighter, the longer this drags on."

"It was dark, the alchemy Edward was planning to use. Destructive."

Mustang sighed.

"We'll have to keep him away from the library, at least until this is over."

Armstrong took a moment to drag his eyes over Mustang's lived-in looking office. At Mustang's uniform, still rumpled and worn from the workday. At the coffee sitting quiet on his desk, and the stack of paperwork half-completed.

"You knew," he said. "You stayed."

"I had a lot of work to finish," Mustang said, and it sounded like an agreement.

Armstrong closed the office door on the sight of Edward settling on the couch, and Mustang ignoring his entire existence like he knew Edward would break under any sort of attention.

….

"Aren't you going to scold me?" Ed asked, a little later. He was on the couch, but he couldn't sleep, not without seeing Alphonse's face.

Or his mother's.

"For what?" Mustang asked as his pen slid across his paper. "For being stupid? If I scolded you every time you were stupid, Fullmetal, we'd never actually leave this office."

"So, that's it?" Ed asked, continuing the conversation solely because he needed a distraction from the terror beating a harsh tattoo underneath his skin. Ed didn't like fear, despised being afraid, but didn't know how to make it stop when it was inspired by family. "I spend the night on your couch, and all is right with the world?"

"You're falling apart," Mustang returned, blunt because people had been babying Edward since his brother was taken four days ago. "Losing stability. I have no use on my team for an alchemist that flies off half-cocked, Fullmetal. If you can't keep it together, I'll take you off of the team until this mission is over."

"Try it, Bastard. Just trying telling me I can't look for my brother. What happens after that is on your head."

"I'll do more than try," Mustang said, calm and in control and hardly even caring as he signed paper after paper. "You may be a genius and a prodigy, Edward, but there are more than enough people who can keep your ass benched right now if we need to."

"Babysitters have never worked before, Bastard."

"Sure, before. When there were two of you, and you weren't half out of your head with desperation. But right now, Fullmetal? You've been caught two nights in a row already, and we haven't even had to try."

Edward fell silent. After a while, he curled his knees up against his chest and dropped his head on top of them. His breath evened out eventually, but he'd barely been asleep twenty minutes before the soft sounds of nightmares started up.

Mustang kept signing, kept his office lamps burning, and the fury in his eyes couldn't be seen unless you looked closely enough.

…

Day five dawned with Fuery and Falman creeping quietly to Mustang's door, and reporting in hushed voices that Edward had been up for hours, and hadn't left the gym at all. Mustang, who had fallen asleep just long enough for Edward to sneak out of the room, nodded and rose from his chair.

"We tried," Fuery whispered sadly. "We really tried, Colonel. But it was like he didn't hear us. And his knuckles were bleeding already, from hitting that bag so hard, and it's been _hours _since then."

The gym smelled like sweat and iron, and Fullmetal's hands were bleeding through the wraps. Sweat rolled down his face, and the signs of dehydration were there, but his eyes never wavered from the punching bag, barely even blinked.

"Fullmetal," Mustang said, and ignored Falman's instinctive wince as he stepped in front of the bag. Edward's fist halted mid-fly, his unbreakable gaze wavering to Mustang instead. "Let's go."

He unwrapped Edward's hands, and Fuery's face looked half destroyed as the blood-stained bandages fell to the floor. Mustang didn't bother to apply first aid, just dragged Edward along by the wrist to the Mess Hall, slapping a tray down in front of him.

Edward made it about halfway through the meal, forcing bits of food between his lips, before gagging and bolting toward the nearest bathroom. Mustang wrapped what he hadn't managed and bagged it up for later.

"Sir," Fuery said. "He's going to be okay. He has to be okay, right?"

"It's been five days, Fuery," Mustang said, quickly and competently bundling Edward's silverware. "And I can't stop all the horrible things he's imagining, because they might be true by now."

Fuery didn't say anything. Just pressed his lips together tight and helped Mustang herd Edward back towards his office.

….

"I need you to come to Central," Mustang whispered later that night, whispered because Edward was making those soft nightmare noises on his couch again.

"Why's that?"

"He's…I can't…Hughes," Mustang said, and even to his own ears he sounded powerless.

Over the phone, Hughes sighed.

"I'm on a mission," he said. "In the middle of it, and I can't get away. Besides, I hear you're doing just fine."

Mustang's head hit the desk (very quietly) because of course his team was calling Hughes, of course they were. They always did when they were worried, and he'd totally seen Breda on the phone earlier, the traitor.

"I'm not," he protested. "He won't eat, and he barely sleeps, and he's either completely lifeless or ready to run away half-cocked."

"I wish I could say it wasn't what I expected," Hughes said, voice heavy over the line. "But, Roy. Edward's always had obsessions. And this one, it's important, the most important, and of course he can't function when it's missing."

"I know that," Mustang said. "But I'm not helping, because I can't coddle him."

"He doesn't need to be coddled," Hughes countered. "Ed's seen more damage in his life than most people, maybe as much as you and I, and he wouldn't know what to do with being coddled. He needs someone to help him cope, to _get it_, and that's what you can offer right now. Focus on what you can do _right now_, Roy, that's what he needs."

Mustang looked over at Edward, hands clenched and head tossing restlessly against the couch.

"Hughes," he said, and it was as helpless as he ever let himself sound to another human being.

"Roy. It's going to be all right."

Not fair, Mustang wanted to chant. Not fair that Fullmetal can need so much from me when I still need to be comforted myself.

"I have to go," Hughes said. "I really am in the middle of a mission."

"Okay." Mustang scrubbed a hand over his face. "Okay. Be safe."

"Of course."

He hung up, and Mustang listened to the dial tone for a long time, because he wanted to scream. Wanted to kick and shout that no teenager, no _child_, should ever have to rely on a person like him, someone who'd done the things he had.

After a while, he breathed deep and set the phone down. He rose from his chair and went to get another cup of coffee.

Because that was what he could do _right now_.

….

Of course, Hughes hadn't mentioned that the mission he'd been in the middle of had been locating Alphonse Elric.

So, when the call came in the next morning, just as the sun was beginning to track pink streaks across the sky, that Alphonse Elric had been recovered unharmed and was asking for his brother, Mustang watched the fixed stare fade from Edward's eyes like a magic trick.

"Al," Ed repeated.

"He's fine," Mustang said again. "A little banged up, but the rebel faction that took him has been arrested, and he's anxious to see you."

For a brief moment, everything in Edward bowed, and shuddered, and Mustang thought he might be about to vomit again.

But then his back snapped straight.

"Okay," he said. "So, are we going to go see him or what, Bastard? I know getting off your ass is a foreign concept for you, but I've had enough of this bullshit waiting game, you know?"

Like normal. Like nothing had ever happened.

When Ed saw Al again, a bit dented and weary-sounding but indeed in one piece, Ed socked him on the shoulder and scolded him for being stupid enough to get caught. Al laughed and shook his head, and argued that it wasn't actually his fault, since his kidnappers hadn't even been after him in the first place.

Like normal. Like Edward hadn't just spent the better part of a week deteriorating and desperate inside Mustang's office.

"See?" Hughes said, obviously exhausted but also viciously satisfied as he leaned against the wall at Mustang's side. "You did just fine."

…..

Because this was their life, Mustang and his crew made it maybe five weeks before another kidnapping-specific incident.

("You can't just call it an incident," Fullmetal would inform him later, as they watched Fuery and Breda color in a new box on the Kidnapping Chart. "Hostage situations are a special thing for us. I mean, we don't have a chart for weird, robot-loving alchemists like the one we smacked down last week, right?")

Mustang had followed Ed and Al on a mission, which was _not _hovering, no matter what Riza's almost-smiles and Havoc pitying snorts implied. He was going simply because it was a situation that called for delicacy, and Fullmetal still acted like that particular concept was a rather entertaining party joke.

Only it went south as quickly as it should have been saved, again, because this was _their life_.

"Listen," the rogue alchemist said, dirty and desperate with one careful finger poised above Alphonse's blood seal. "I don't want to hurt anybody, really. I just need to get out, you see, and I need leverage against the military to do that."

Beside him, Ed was tensed like a runner on the mark. Mustang doubted that he was even hearing what the alchemist was saying. All of his focus, all of that prodigy-level attention, was fixated on the circling thumb, tracing Al's seal almost absent-mindedly. That focus, to the exclusion of everything else, was something Mustang could recognize now, having dealt with it the last time Alphonse had been in danger.

The last time. When Ed had punched things until he bled, barely slept, and started researching the same dark alchemy that had led to his downfall once before. The same dark alchemy that he should have shied away from, just on principal.

"If you need leverage," Mustang said, slow and careful because the air was dangerously still. "One suit of armor isn't going to do you much good."

"Don't lie to me, Mustang," the alchemist said, and pressed a little harder on the seal. Beside him, Ed made a noise that somehow embodied panic and pain, and Mustang clamped preemptive fingers down around his wrist. "I'm an alchemist, not some common street thug. This armor is the Fullmetal boy's brother. And if I snap his seal, there won't be enough of him left to stuff inside a body. That seems like perfectly serviceable leverage to me."

"Brother," Al said, soft and scared but still so strong. "It's okay. I'm okay. He won't hurt me, because then he won't have any leverage at all."

But Ed still wasn't listening, couldn't hear, apparently, over the terror pounding inside his skull.

"The armor might be important to the boy, but we at the military have no use for it," Mustang said, voice so calm even as he cringed inside. "There's a reason only one Elric was made into an alchemist. Snap his seal and you still won't clear the building."

The alchemist froze, face pale with indecision, because if any game belonged to Mustang, poker was definitely it.

"But we want to negotiate," he continued, voice as soothing as a lullabye. "We're not unreasonable, and this doesn't have to be a messy thing. Take Fullmetal instead. I promise you that none of our own will fire on a state alchemist."

"Colonel," Al whispered. "Colonel, what are you _doing_?"

Mustang thought about Ed's ravaged face, thought about his shaking shoulders and blood-stained hands as he curled up on his couch, and ignored Al's horrified question.

"Think about it," he said instead, speaking directly to the alchemist. "Think about how much the military has invested in Fullmetal already. Letting him join the service so young. You don't think the Fuhrer will do anything to protect his prodigy?"

The alchemist's eyes widened. His fingers scraped carelessly down Al's metal sides, but his eyes had fixed on Edward. Mustang could see the calculations flying behind his eyes, quick and sharp.

"No tricks," Mustang added, because pressure could always be applied. "Like I said, we want to negotiate. I just want you to make sure that you've got the right bargaining tools before we start."

"Fine," the alchemist said. "Send Fullmetal to me."

Mustang tightened his fingers on Ed's wrist.

"This isn't my first negotiation," he said, almost lazily. "I'm a little bit smarter than your average military bureaucrat. Take your fingers off of the armor's blood seal, and I'll send Fullmetal your way."

The alchemist tapped a considering finger against the seal instead, and Alphonse made a noise in spite of himself.

"I thought the armor meant nothing to you," he said.

Mustang shrugged.

"That's what I said," he agreed. "But the brother still holds weight with Fullmetal, and I won't be leaving you with all the power, no matter what kind it is."

The alchemist considered. Eventually, he nodded, and pulled his hands away from the seal.

Mustang loosened his fingers from Ed's wrist, although they felt heavier for the releasing. For the life of him, he couldn't explain why letting go felt so much harder, and why his throat felt thick as he gave Fullmetal a nudge in the back.

"Go," he said, when Ed looked at him with confused eyes.

"I don't-"

"Listen, Fullmetal, the last time your brother got kidnapped, you moped on my couch for a week," Mustang said. "Really, serious moping, and I sort of need my office mope-free to get any work done. So, get over there, and let me keep your brother safe, because I can't stand any more of your emotional _feels_ all over my couch."

He shoved Fullmetal again, because for some reason it was even more difficult to let him go now that awareness was filling those golden eyes.

"I," Edward tried again, and then actually smiled a little. The clarity in his eyes tightened Mustang's chest like a fist. "Yeah. Okay."

He walked, slow and careful in the alchemist's direction, eyes fixed on the alchemist's hands, lest they wander back towards Al's seal. Once he was within grabbing distance, he held his hands in the air.

"I'm here," he said. "But you need to let Al go."

"Brother," Al whispered. "Brother, don't."

The alchemist flipped his eyes in Mustang's direction, quick and calculating, and the Colonel could see that he was weighing the benefits of keeping both. But Mustang made sure to keep his face as lazy as a yawn, and betray exactly zero of the concern he felt for Alphonse.

With a quick, careless snort, the alchemist shoved Al away. Al's armor hit the ground with a dull-sounding thud, and fast as a blink, the alchemist had fashioned a set of ropes to keep Edward's hands apart and therefore unable to perform alchemy.

"Brother," Al cried, shifting to his metal knees.

"Al, _go_," Ed hissed, and then stumbled as the alchemist tugged on his ropes.

"You should be able to clear the building now," Mustang said. "Send us a list of your demands, and we should be able to reach a deal."

"I certainly hope so, Mustang," the alchemist sneered, and gave Ed's ropes one more tug for good measure. The look on Ed's face promised murder, so much murder, and Mustang could have laughed to see it. "Because if you don't, your prodigy dies."

"Understood," Mustang said, and then cocked an eyebrow at the younger alchemist. "Don't do anything stupid, Fullmetal."

"Who, me?" Edward said, and his smile was all teeth. "When have I ever?"

It was heroic, really, that Mustang was able to keep his face straight.

"Colonel," Al said, scrambling up to his side. "Colonel, don't let him…we can…"

But Ed and the alchemist were already gone, disappearing down the darkened corridor, the alchemist with a sharp tug and Ed with a curse-filled complaint. And Mustang had to put restraining hands on Alphonse's metal shoulders in order to keep him from following.

"Don't!" Al cried, sharper than Mustang had ever heard from him before. "Let me go! How could you…you just let him go! We could have _handled_ it, I am not weak, I could have done _something_, you didn't need to _trade_ us!"

Mustang didn't say a word. Just let Alphonse struggle, and breathed deep over the fact that _this_ anger, this was feeling that could be channeled. _This_ was the affirmation that he needed to know that his call had been correct.

"You're supposed to look after him!" Al continued to shout. "Because I know that I can't all the time, I thought you were working with me to keep him safe. That's why we _trusted you in the first place_!"

"I am looking after him, Al," Mustang said, softly. "You might see that later."

"All I _see_ is the big hole where my brother _should_ be standing!"

"Enough," Mustang said, but not without kindness. Because this might not be Ed-levels of bad, but it still must be painful. "Al, enough. He's gone, it's done. Now let's go figure out how to get him back."

And despite Al's frozen, stony silence, Mustang walked out of the building feeling like maybe he'd lived up to Hughes' praise after all.

….

Predictably, it all came to a head three days later, when Ed escaped his ropes and brought down the building the alchemist had been keeping him in.

"I want to be surprised," Mustang said to the younger alchemist, who was standing in his office, still covered in dirt and dust. "I really want to be surprised, Fullmetal, that there is _yet another_ demolished building decorating your rather colorful resume. And yet, I just can't seem to muster it." Mustang dropped into his chair, tapped his fingers against his chin. "Why d'you think that is, Edward?"

"They told me Al isn't speaking to you," Edward answered, head cocked just a little to the side.

"Yes, well." Mustang gave his chair an absent spin. "I think he might actually be plotting my demise. But in the nicest way possible. Assassination by kittens or something."

"He's angry with you. For letting me go."

"Wow, are you going to scold me too? Two Elric scoldings, however will I carry on with my life?"

"It was the right call."

Mustang boggled. Smoothly, of course, to the point where it didn't much look like boggling at all. But the spirit of boggling was definitely there.

"I…did you just use the word 'right'? To describe one of my decisions?" Mustang tipped back in his seat. "I actually…have no idea what to do with that."

Ed snorted, scooped some of the building dust out of his hair.

"Yeah, whatever, don't get used to it." He kicked one of his feet against the carpet, with which he appeared to be having a rather intense staring contest. "You're right, like, one percent of the time. Maybe. I'm just saying." He scowled and kicked his foot again. "I'm just saying that maybe you do see some things. Bastard."

Mustang kind of wanted to make fun, of Edward's pink cheeks or maybe the way he delivered words of praise like they caused him actual physical pain. But he glanced at his couch, thought of a too-young boy with bloody knuckles, curled up and chasing nightmares, and cleared his throat instead.

"I need to see Al," Ed continued. "Let him fuss at me for a little bit; it makes him feel better. I'll let you get back to crying over your mission reports."

He turned and booted out the door, without making eye contact once.

"They'd be significantly less tear-stained if I didn't have to report anymore _buildings blown up from the inside_!" Mustang shouted after him.

Alphonse did indeed start speaking to him again, later that day, although there was something menacing in that metal brow. It made Mustang smile (secretly, of course) and clap a hand on his armored shoulder, even if it wasn't completely welcome yet.

And then he called Fullmetal short, in front of the entire office. Just to get things back on the normal track.

And Edward. Instead of blowing up, he tipped his face up to the ceiling and scowled silently instead.

And Mustang recognized it for the acknowledgement that it was, and it made him smile (SECRETLY) even harder.


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: Whoa. LONGEST. DAILY. EVER. No, really, it is, the longest I've ever written for this series. Someone suggested Ed interacting with teenagers, and the idea jumped my brain like a mutant bunny, and then it WOULDN'T STOP GROWING. And somehow, just like Chapter 22 "The Absolute", it got way deeper than the entertaining little romp I originally had planned. Also, it doesn't fit inside the canon timeline. Somewhere, around page fifteen, I stopped caring and just started bleeding from the eyes. Sorry! _

_Apologies for the wait, and for the way it morphed on me. I adore each and every one of you, thank you so much for your continuous love for this series!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, and am making no money from this story._

**The Mirrors**

"But I don't _want_ to," Edward said, and hated like burning the fact that it actually made him sound like the teenager he was.

Behind his desk, hands folded and smug almost-smirk locked firmly in place, Mustang blinked at him. Blinked at him so _innocently_, the bastard.

"You're missing out on the bigger picture here, Fullmetal," Mustang said. "Which is that _I _don't want to, and as your commanding officer, what I want is just infinitely more important."

Ed clenched his fists. Considered stamping his foot. Decided against it, as he really was trying to act anything other than seventeen.

"I have stuff to do," he reminded Mustang, with a truly impressive amount of calm. "Important…stuff."

"You're researching leads," Mustang shot back with a pleasant smile. "And while that might be important in your extremely limited worldview, it also doesn't take up _every single second _of your time. Also? I actually do possess a piece of paper that says you need to whatever I tell you, with your name on it and everything."

Edward hunched his shoulders.

"Bet you couldn't even find it without Hawkeye helping you," he pointed out.

"Regardless," Mustang said, and Ed almost laughed, because that really wasn't a denial. "I have it, it exists, and now I am enforcing it. Man up, Fullmetal."

"You're not my real dad," Ed muttered, and then they both froze, because _wow_, what a completely terrible joke, for _so many reasons_.

"Right," Mustang wheezed, and Ed took it as a mutual agreement to forget the last twenty seconds or so completely. "Hawkeye has the paperwork detailing your assignment. Why don't you…go find her, or something?"

"Yep," Ed agreed, and ambled carefully out the door.

….

There was something so inherently _wrong_ about being awake before the sun was up, Ed believed this, and yet there he was, clutching a cup of really bad coffee and hating Mustang with every fiber of his being.

The three thirteen year olds staring back at him obviously shared his opinion.

"So, listen," Ed started. "I'm not here to…be your friend, or your guru, or whatever. This is a mission; you guys were picked up after basic alchemic screening tests indicated that you had some level of ability. This has nothing to do with me wanting to train a new generation of alchemists, okay?"

One girl in the front row tipped her head at him.

"Are you twelve?" she asked, voice sharp. "You look twelve. And I'm being generous, I am, because those are elevator shoes you're wearing, I see this."

"What," Ed replied, and it really wasn't a question.

"I'm just saying," she said. "You can't really stand there and talk about 'new generation' when you _are_ the new generation still, and just barely that."

"Are you related to Mustang?" Ed asked suspiciously, because her braided hair was black, and her eyes were a familiar dark blue. "His secret love-child or something? This is, this is a trap, isn't it?"

"I'm Vanessa," she said, and kicked booted feet up to rest on the table. "But call me Nessa. And I'm not a love-child, my parents are married, what the hell are you talking about?"

"It is your fault," the boy in the back intoned from the cavern of his arms. He had yet to raise his head from the desk. "Your fault that I am awake this early, and will be for the next two weeks. You had to go and prodigy yourself at the age of twelve and now the military thinks that they can find more mindless cash cows to enlist." He raised his face just enough to give Ed a glare out of dark brown eyes. "All your fault."

"Prodigy is not a verb," Ed replied, because he literally had nothing else.

The other girl, so blonde and bubbly that it actually hurt Ed's eyes to look at her, raised a hand. Like they were in an actual classroom, and wow, she had been taking notes on _everything he'd said so far_.

"Do we call you Mr. Elric?" she asked earnestly. "Major? Major Fullmetal?"

"Short stack? Blondie? Magic-hand child?" Nessa added.

"I hate_ everything_," Ed decided, and sucked down the rest of his coffee.

….

Ed took the three kids ("You can't call us _kids_," Nessa reminded him. "You're only four years older than us, and I don't actually believe that anyway.") to the training ground and got them started on the basics. According to the bullshit syllabus Hawkeye had handed him, he was supposed to start this two week training by "gauging their individual levels of ability".

He handed them pieces of chalk and instructed them to draw a basic transmutation circle. Callie, the inescapably perky blonde, drew a textbook perfect circle on the stones. When Ed asked her to activate it, it produced a small, decently sized product. Mathematically balanced, perfectly neat and organized.

Jake, the brown haired boy with what Ed suspected was a mild case of narcolepsy, stared at Ed in sleepy-eyed bewilderment. After a few minutes of staring back and forth between Ed and the chalk in his hands, Jake scribbled something that closely resembled a flower on the rocks. When Ed asked him to do something with it, Jake slapped it with one hand and then yawned like the effort had been too great. To Ed's complete _lack _of shock, nothing at all happened.

Nessa drew something that didn't even make _sense_. And after Ed spent fifteen minutes trying to convince her that she was wrong, _wow so wrong_, she bent down and slapped her hands on it out of pure frustration. A brilliant blue light flooded the training ground, and a decently sized spike shot up out of the earth.

"What," Ed said again, as Nessa leaned back and looked smug.

He spent another ten minutes making her walk him through her process. And once she disassembled it, once he could _watch_ her take it apart, it slipped into sudden and startling clarity.

"Go away," Ed instructed, as Nessa continued to radiate _smug_ in his general direction. "We're done, _I'm _done, go away now."

"See you tomorrow, Mr. Elric!" Callie called cheerfully, and Ed considered beating his face against the stones.

….

Ed kicked in Mustang's office door. The fact that Hawkeye didn't even try to stop him was pretty significant.

"Yes?" Mustang said, folding his hands like there wasn't a broken _door_ lying on the carpet.

"I…you…I don't actually have enough words to express my hatred. There are not enough words in the universe."

"Is that all then, Fullmetal?"

"Die in a fire," Ed snapped, and then stormed back out of the office.

….

Day Three (the less said about Day Two, the better, chalk was _never_ meant to be used in that fashion, what the hell Nessa) demanded that Ed teach the basic mathematical principles of alchemy. So Ed gave them the equation for a basic transmutation and asked them to figure out both the product and whether or not the material exchange could be considered equivalent.

Callie got to work right away, scribbling busily on her paper with a perfectly sharpened pencil. She balanced the numbers with textbook precision, showed all of her work, and circled the calculated product once she finished.

Nessa sneered at the paper for a solid fifteen minutes before finally getting to work. She appeared to be working hard but when Ed circled by to check on her progress he found two half-hearted equations in the upper hand corner, and the rest of the page dominated by a detailed drawing of a dragon.

A dragon with Ed's face and a floppy braid.

"I am going to make you eat that paper," Ed informed her, with a worrying amount of calm.

"Yeah, whatever," Nessa said, clearly unimpressed. "Numbers are crap, Teach. That's what intuition is for."

"Intuition."

"Yeah. I mean, I never calculate out my transmutations, and they always work anyway, so why bother?"

Ed scrubbed at his eyes with his automail hand. Briefly considered using it to lobotomize himself.

"Your transmutations work because you've got a natural affinity," he said. "But that's it. Without the math, that's all they are. If you, wow Nessa, if you actually used the numbers, your transmutations could be so much more. _You _could be so much more."

"Numbers are _boring_," she said, and got to work scribbling smoke rings around her Ed-dragon. "I'm good with what I have."

Ed's teeth ground together so hard he was sort of surprised he wasn't spitting smoke rings of his very own.

"_Why_? Why would you settle, why, when you know you could be so much better-"

"Don't wanna," Nessa repeated, slow and deliberate like Ed was a very stupid child. "Boring."

Ed walked away, because if he stayed for one more second, he might actually give in to the urge to _climb up on her desk _and _be a dragon for real_.

"Jake," he said, slow and long-suffering, because Jake's head had been up for maybe five minutes, and now it was on the desk again. "Jake, c'mon, I need you to try, really-"

And then he glanced at Jake's paper. Which had exactly two things written on it.

The correct product of the equation, scribbled lazily underneath the rows of numbers.

And the words, _This equation is not equivalent, enjoy the power rebound, hope you weren't too attached to those toes._

And that was it. There were no numbers, no calculations, to explain how Jake had gotten the right answer, how he'd noticed that the transmutation was unbalanced when textbook-perfect Callie hadn't seen it.

He'd only had his head up for _five minutes_.

"I like numbers," Jake explained around a yawn, after Ed spent ten minutes making incoherent dragon noises in his general direction. "One right answer. Less time spent digging around in the subjective." He dropped his head back down to the desk. "Still don't know why you keep expecting me to draw sidewalk pictures, though."

Ed stared. At the back of Jake's curly head and the piece of paper in his hand. He stared for a solid thirty seconds.

Then, he dropped himself into the nearest desk and laughed and laughed until Nessa threw her pencil at him and shouted, "Can't concentrate, shut up, you look like a crazy person, _wow_."

….

On Day Seven, Callie burst into tears in the middle of training.

Ed thought that he'd finally figured it out. He'd thrown the stupid syllabus out the window (literally, literally thrown it, Al had watched him with something like great emotional pain radiating off his armor) and sectioned out individual areas of improvement. Jake spent all day drawing transmutation circles, learning to connect the numbers to the pictures on the ground. Nessa did math, nothing but math, and at least once a day she and Ed got into a screaming fight when her frustration levels hit their high point (but she _would_ be better, she would be more, because Ed knew that she could). And Callie, so precise and perfect, alternated between the two. Ed worried about her the most, actually. Because she was perfect, yes. But she was also never going to get any better than this.

Jake was a mathematical genius, and if Ed could just coax him past the black and white world of numbers and into the subjective art of circle drawing, just a little bit, he was going to be amazing. He'd be useful, so useful, in a fight when the transmutation had to be perfect, had to be _fast_ and balanced and effective.

And Nessa. Nessa was going to be _brilliant_. She was complacent now, content with the little bit of power she had, but Ed was going to break her of that, smash that to little bitty pieces. Because the power sang for her, Ed knew, in the same way it sang for him. The circles, the products, the balance, they came so naturally to her, just _were_ in a way that Ed never thought he'd see outside himself. The power came to her like intuition, and she was going to miraculous, once Ed pushed her far enough.

But Callie. Callie was a plateau. Perfectly good and serviceable, but never anything more than that. And it wasn't fair; it really wasn't, because she worked so hard. Jake finished math equations in five minutes and spent the rest of the time sleeping on his desk, and Nessa dug her heels in against anything that even resembled _work _or _change_. Callie read and studied and worked and Ed watched the frustration and the sadness when her numbers paled compared to Jake's, when Nessa's half-assed circles produced bigger and beautiful things than her textbook perfect designs.

And Ed had never wondered, never stopped to worry that she might have reached the same realization, until Nessa stopped in the middle of their latest screaming match to stare over his left shoulder.

Callie was crying. Silently. Miserably. Splashing tears onto knuckles scraped raw from drawing the same circles over and over, trying and failing to figure out what made them less, what made them _not enough_.

"Shit," Edward said, because he literally couldn't think of anything else.

Very carefully, Callie picked herself up off the ground and walked away. So carefully, like she was keeping herself from shaking apart through sheer force of will. They all watched her go, even Jake, his face unnaturally pale and alert.

"Go," Nessa hissed, and gave him a shove.

"I…what?" Ed asked, hopelessly adrift.

"You have to talk to her," Jake said, and he sounded so quiet, so serious, and so different from his lazy drawl.

Not stupid, his kids. From the looks on their faces, they'd already puzzled out exactly why Callie was crying.

"You have to do it," Nessa insisted, and her own voice sounded suspiciously thick, and Ed had a completely straight-faced panic attack, because _Oh God, no more crying, can't handle the crying_. "She needs…you have to talk to her."

"I…shit," Ed said again. "Fine. I'm going."

He found her in the pretty little picnic area, where he'd taken them for lunch one day, if only so Nessa would quit bitching about being stuck inside a classroom, and Jake could actually spread himself out and nap. She wasn't crying anymore, but her face was soft and miserable.

"Sorry," she said, very softly.

"No problem," Ed answered awkwardly. "Really, no worries, I'm pretty sure Nessa's crying too, and that's embarrassing, she doesn't even have a reason."

Callie smiled, just the barest curving of lips. It was not a happy smile.

"So you think I have a reason?" she asked.

And Ed took a moment before answering, because really, he was still a kid himself. He was not…trained? Equipped? Not at all prepared to be handling this crap.

"I think," he said, and hated himself for stumbling over his own words. Get it together, brain. "That it's hard. Really hard, to be a little less special than everyone else in the room."

Callie's lip wobbled and her eyes went wet again. Ed's brain transformed itself into one big, blaring scream of panic.

"NOT THAT YOU'RE NOT SPECIAL!" he pretty much shrieked, and okay, _startled_ Callie back into dry-eyes. Victory? "I mean, you really are. Just in different ways, Callie."

"What ways?" she whispered, and Ed dropped down cautiously to sit beside her.

"Who else can get Nessa to close her mouth and get to work? Not me, and well, Jake's useless, we all know this."

Callie laughed, just a little. Ed chose to interpret it as a good sign, because he honestly had no idea what to do if she started crying again.

"And you're the only one that can get Jake to actually explain his equations. His brain is a crazy thing, Callie, don't laugh, that's truth, that's scientific fact. And he won't explain them to me, his equations; because I actually think he likes to see me suffer. But all you have to do is tell him that you don't get it, and he'll pick his head up long enough to help you get to the end." Ed paused, considered. "Actually, looking back on the past week, I'm about ninety-eight percent positive that I would have killed one or both of them by now if you hadn't been there, Callie."

Callie laughed again, a little bit stronger this time, a little bit brighter.

"So your skill set," Ed babbled, and he really hated himself for babbling, but apparently that was where he ended up when his brain kicked into survival mode. "Actually more useful in everyday life, I mean screw alchemic genius, doesn't mean anything if everyone is dead via temper tantrum, right?"

"You don't get an opinion," Callie informed him, and her brown eyes were still wet, but they were warm now at least. "_You're_ an alchemic genius."

"Fine, be that way," Ed breathed, failing to be offended in the wake of his relief.

And then she wrapped her arms around him, and that was. That was a new thing. A new level of not fun, the hugging.

"Yes, thanks," Ed said, patting her awkwardly on the top of her head. "Thanks, for the arms. And uh…oh look, the tear stains on my jacket. That's great, that's wonderful, are we done now?"

Callie's grin was big and bright as she detached.

"Thanks, Mr. Elric," she said, and then led the way back towards the training ground.

The others were waiting anxiously. Jake was even on his _feet_, so impressive. They both started over and then stopped, like they weren't sure of their welcome.

"Jake," Callie said with a soft smile. "I can't figure out the equation. Can you show me?"

Ed had never seen him smile like that, big and bright instead of soft and sleepy and tinged with "Aww, aren't you stupid for interrupting my rest". He grabbed the paper, tugged Callie close, and started explaining the numbers with an enthusiasm that Ed truly hadn't believed he was capable of. He watched them for a moment, the sweet sense of relief starting to ease the mindless panic, until a tiny fist socked him in the arm.

"Idiot," Nessa said, shaking out her hand.

"I am going to transmute you into a tree. Or a wall. You're a _menace to society_."

Nessa's face conveyed just how terrifying she found Ed's threat. Which was not at all, potentially even into negative numbers, a deficit of not caring.

"Not bad, though," she added, so quietly that Ed almost missed it.

And then she bounded away, yelling (always _yelling_) something about, "Where are the bandages, your student is bleeding, how do you fail so hard at being a teacher, I'm actually really sad for you."

That night, Ed collapsed on Mustang's office floor as soon as the students went home. Nothing seemed so glorious to his aching brain as the carpet against his face, and so he snuggled in happily, and it only took the team four tries to figure out (through much growling and other animal noises on Edward's part) that Ed actually had zero desire to be moved.

Mustang, for his part, never tried to pry him off the floor. Just pretended to finish paperwork as he silently laughed himself to pieces behind his desk.

….

Day Twelve was set aside for something called "Combat Alchemy". In which Ed was apparently supposed to teach three thirteen-year olds to throw a punch and transmute shit at the same time.

"You do it all the time," Callie pointed out, as Ed moped and brooded and absolutely did not whine.

Ed shot her a look of deep betrayal.

"No longer my favorite," he declared, and Callie laughed.

"Whatever," Nessa snorted. "I'm totally the favorite."

"You set my coat on fire yesterday," Ed reminded her, voice as flat as the cookies they served in the Mess. "My coat. On fire."

"Yeah," Nessa agreed. "But there was, like, love behind the gesture, and stuff."

"Wow," Jake said, slumped against the wall and looking like he protested the entire institution of standing up.

"Wow," Ed agreed, and then sighed. "Okay. So, this is how you make a fist."

"_Really_?"Nessa whined, and Ed shut her up with a glare.

It all went south surprisingly fast. The kids had graduated from punching air, to trying to punch each other, and Ed was trying to teach them how to find that space, that tiny pocket of time to draw the transmutation circle they needed. But it was difficult, so difficult, because all the kids seemed to care about was hitting each other and them jumping away, and Ed was rusty with drawing circles in the heat of battle anyway.

But then Nessa let out a triumphant shout, and activated a circle that Ed hadn't seen her draw. And the spike that shot out of the ground about stopped Ed's heart, because it headed straight for a defenseless Callie. Ed barely managed to tackle her out of the way in time, felt the spike scrape across his shoulder, tearing fabric and the flesh underneath.

Dead silence fell across the training ground.

"Are you hurt?" Ed asked, quick and breathless. "Callie, are you hurt?"

"No," she whispered, and her brown eyes were wide, too wide in her whitened face. "Y-you're _bleeding_."

Ed shrugged, and then hissed in annoyance when the movement tugged his tender shoulder. He climbed to his feet, and helped Callie to hers.

Jake was against the wall again. But his face was white, white like paper, underneath his brown curls. And Nessa was standing next to her spike, eyes wide and bruised.

"_What_," Ed asked, soft and dangerous, "was that?"

Nessa's spine snapped straight. Her chin jutted out.

"Alchemy," she said. "You know, that thing you've been teaching us."

"Where was your control? Your accuracy? You could have gotten Callie killed."

"But I didn't," Nessa pointed out, with a toss of her hair. "She's fine, and that was a pretty impressive piece of alchemy if I do say so myself."

"That's a life," Ed shot back, and he'd never heard his own voice so quiet, so careful. "You shouldn't be so careless with it."

Nessa's eyes were hot with annoyance, and shame underneath that.

"Sure," she sneered. "Because that's what you've taught us. Because that's what those _books_ teach us, with their entire sections on how to perform alchemy on humans. Why should I be careful at all, Teach? Because according to the books, I can knit back together whatever I break and-"

The sound of Ed's automail fist hitting the spike, crushing it into pieces, was very loud within the training ground. Nessa stood, for once stunned into silence, as rock and dirt crumbled around her and Ed loomed, white-faced and trembling and barely able to hear over the sounds of _Big Brother Edward _and _Al, no, give him back, he's my little brother, he's all I have, give him back_ echoing inside his skull.

"You're not so special," the words were like static, coming out of Ed's mouth without conscious thought. "Not so talented that human life doesn't matter. You're not…you don't…you could _never_ pay the cost it takes. Not for a human life, there is no equivalency."

"I-" Nessa started, and maybe later he'd appreciate how young she looked, for once acting her age.

"If you think that your power is so great, that a human life means so little," Ed continued. "Then leave. Go. Burn your books, I'll burn your books and your papers and everything around you that ties to alchemy, because I won't let you become that, won't let you make that mistake, won't let you pay that price, not so young, not _ever_-"

A hand on his arm startled him out of his ranting.

"Mr. Elric," Callie, it was Callie, crying again. "Please, Mr. Elric, enough."

Ed could barely hear her. There was a roaring in his ears, a rush of white noise. And when he turned back, Nessa was staring at his automail fist with something like recognition in her eyes, and the beginnings of horror.

Ed walked away. Turned and walked away, and if they called him back, the roaring in his ears was still too loud for him to hear.

….

"I told you. I told you that I didn't want this assignment."

Mustang didn't look up from his paperwork.

"And again, I marvel over your ability to believe that you're actually going to _enjoy _every mission, Fullmetal."

Ed wrapped one arm around his waist. Tried to pretend that he wasn't trembling, like he wasn't shaking himself to pieces.

"They're kids. Just kids. And they don't know…they don't understand. And I don't what you were expecting _me _to teach them, me of all people, Mustang."

The Colonel smiled at his paperwork. Just a little bit, just barely, and it could hardly be called a smile anyway, bitter as it was.

"That's the funny thing about mirrors, isn't it, Edward?" he asked. "How they always seem to show the worst parts of you."

"And how would you know?" Ed scraped out, and pressed a frustrated hand to his aching head. The white noise, the roar, had died, leaving behind a sharp, throbbing pain. "You've never had a self-reflective day in your _life_, Bastard, how would you know anything about mirrors?"

"I know that children create the clearest reflections," Mustang said, petal soft inside the quiet room. "The brighter they burn, they better they show your own failings."

Ed closed his eyes. Ground his palm against his temple. Eventually, he gave in, and collapsed against Mustang's couch.

"You've always been such a shining thing, Fullmetal," Mustang murmured into the silence.

Ed breathed deep. Turned his face into the cushions and didn't answer.

….

Ed debated showing up the next day. Half-convinced himself that the kids weren't going to be there anyway, that he'd scared them away with his serious words and his fists made of fury. But Al fluttered around him, fretting and trying really hard (and really badly) to hide and Ed couldn't take the pressure. So he rolled himself out of bed and tugged on his clothes, trooping down towards the training ground like there was a firing squad, or an army of angry chimeras, or Hawkeye without her caffeine intake, waiting for him.

There were none of those things. What he did see, upon stepping inside the classroom, was three solemn faces, busily pretending to do anything else (Callie was actually pretending to _clean_, wow).

And a cup of steaming coffee sitting on his usual stool.

Ed scooped it up. Studied the way Nessa refused to look at him, the angry blush that lit her face.

"I'm going to sit," Ed informed the room. "I'm going to sit, all day, and you three are going to do everything I ask. Like proper minions."

From the cavern of his arms, Jake snorted out a laugh. Callie giggled into the books she was still pretending to straighten. And Nessa grinned, slow and hesitant.

"Aw," she said. "It's adorable that you think so, Teach."

That day, during Combat Alchemy, the kids listened to Ed's every instruction. And when Jake accidentally activated a transmutation circle, sending another spike through the dirt, it was Nessa that tackled him out of the way.

Ed curled his fingers around his long-empty coffee cup, and smiled.

….

On Day Fourteen, Ed was waylaid on his way to the training grounds by _an invasion_. Alarms blared as Central was invaded by a particularly enterprising rebel faction.

"How is this my _life_?" Ed hissed as he clapped his hands and suspended an unconscious group from the ceiling.

He hurried back out into the hallway, ignoring the fact that his human leg was dragging a bit, because his kids. They'd be at the training grounds by now.

"Fullmetal!" he heard, and Mustang was there, gloves on and suddenly at his side.

"Can't talk," Ed shot over his shoulder. "Go and, I don't know, defend your borders or whatever."

"Wow," Mustang said, and then dragged him against the wall just as the bullets started to fly.

From both directions.

"I don't have_ time for this_," Ed snapped, clapping his hands together impatiently.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mustang hissed back, controlling his flames carefully so as not to scorch the corridor. "Is this invasion _inconvenient _for you, Fullmetal? Should I ask them to reschedule?"

"My _kids_ are down there," Ed replied, delivering a solid punch to a grizzled jaw. "On the training grounds, alone, with two weeks of alchemic training. I can't leave them there, they're not _ready_, not prepared-"

A dragon made of dirt cut him off mid-impassioned rant, swooping inside an open window and tackling a large number of the enemy.

"What," Mustang said, and it really wasn't a question.

"Nessa," Ed hissed. "So _unoriginal_."

Two dark blue eyes peeped over the windowsill. Ed would never, ever own to the relief swooping inside his gut.

"That hurts me," Nessa said, clambering inside the corridor with a complete lack of grace. "Hurts me right here, Teach."

"What are you doing here?" Ed snapped, grabbing her arm as soon as she hit the floor. "You idiot, this isn't a training exercise, where are Jake and Callie?"

Nessa blinked innocent eyes at him, which was fooling exactly no one, due to the fact that she had never had an innocent day in her entire life.

"You're jealous," she said mournfully. "So jealous of my dragon, I don't even know."

"Oh my _God_," Mustang said, with great feeling, from the background.

Ed breathed out hard through his nose. Reminded himself that throttling Nessa would be counterproductive.

"Nessa," he repeated, with what he thought was great patience, but probably damaged a bit by the vein thumping away in his temple. "Where are-"

An explosion rattled the hallway, knocking everyone off their feet, and burying several advancing bad guys under bits of debris.

"Whoops," Jake said, blinking sleepily at his hand like he'd never seen it before. "I think I made my circle too big."

"_Oh my God_," Mustang repeated, from the floor.

"I hate everything," Ed muttered, crawling to his feet. Down the hall a little ways, a few straggling bad guys were doing the same, looking dazed. "Everything. Okay, Jake. Where's-"

A scream ripped down the hallway, shattering the shocked stillness that always follows an explosion. Ed's heart catapulted into his throat as he whipped around and saw those stragglers advancing on Callie, grinning at the obvious fear in her face.

Terror ripped down's Ed's spine like a rocket and he was running, running with the knowledge that he was not going to reach her in time-

Only to skid to a stop as he watched Callie use her smaller size to tuck and roll and launch three overweight goons out the hole Jake had so helpfully made in the wall.

"That's my move," Ed observed blankly. "I…taught you that move."

"That was _awesome_!" Callie whooped, face flushed and laughing. "Look how far they flew!"

"Just like you said," Jake yawned, _how _was he still yawning, this was a _military invasion_. "Bad guys always lose their focus if they think you're small, and scared."

"They're not very good thugs," Nessa said with deep disapproval, glaring up at the ones Ed had left hanging from the ceiling.

"Neck wringing," Ed decided. "There's going to be so much neck wringing, just pencil that in for later, that's going to be a thing that happens."

"Look, there's more of them!" Callie sang out, and then took off down a different corridor.

"Hot damn," Nessa agreed, and took off after her.

Even Jake executed a sort of sleepy shuffle in that general direction. And left Ed and Mustang standing in shocked silence and the remains of a corridor.

"If the building is not standing," Mustang said, perfectly calm and precise. "Fullmetal, if it is not standing when this invasion is over, I am _telling_."

"I _hate everything_," Ed repeated, with great relish, before breaking out into a run. "You damn idiots, wait for me!"

….

Later, much later, Ed lay sprawled against a crumbling wall, breathing hard and glaring with all the power of his internal hatred. Which, at the moment, was quite immense.

Across from him, his three students pointed at his ugly look and laughed and laughed. There was blood, just a bit, and Jake was favoring his right side, but mostly they were just winded and streaked with dirt.

In the distance, the all-clear sirens began to ring. All criminals captured, killed, or expelled.

"Best," Nessa declared, flopping over on her stomach. "Best lesson _ever_."

"Yeah, thanks, Mr. Elric!" Callie chirped.

Jake started_ snoring_. He was _napping_ against the _rubble_.

"I quit," Edward said, and he only sounded a little bit hysterical, good for him.

"Still got that piece of paper," Mustang said, appearing out of nowhere _yet again_ and dropping down to sit at Ed's side. "Says you have to do what I say. I lock it up when I don't need it, it's safe, because like hell I'd ever get you to sign it again."

"The building's still standing," Ed pointed out. Mustang's jacket was covered in dirt and his face was bruised, God he was going to bitch about that shiner for _weeks_. But his smirk was locked in place, so they were fine. "Go away."

"Always the conversationalist," Mustang said, and dropped his head back against the stones.

They sat in silence for a minute, breathing deep, and listened to Nessa and Callie poking Jake with various bits of debris. Then, Ed murmured, "So. Mirrors, huh?"

"Mirrors," Mustang agreed, with a tiny smile.

"They always only reflect the worst parts?"

"Maybe not always," Mustang said, and if that was pride in his voice, Ed was sure as shit never going to acknowledge it.

"Sir!" someone called. An officer, slipping his way across the fallen stones. "Colonel! The Fuhrer's looking for you!"

"Oh?" Mustang went tense, tense like rock against Ed's side. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes sir," the officer said, and there was something like embarrassment on his face, wasn't that interesting? "He wants to speak with you, is all."

Mustang sighed, and started to push himself to his feet.

"Did he say what about?" he asked, passing a weary hand over his face.

The officer blushed. Looked around the ruined hallway. Shuffled his feet.

"Uh. Yes, Sir. He wants to talk about you allowing Major Elric to train a secret army." The officer coughed delicately. "He said to tell you that the idea was sound, but the property damage might not fall under 'acceptable losses'."

Mustang stared. Edward gaped. Across the hallway, Nessa shrieked as Jake finally had enough with the poking and smacked her with a well-aimed paw.

Ed started to laugh. Silently. Mustang turned to glare at him as he shook himself apart against the wall.

"I'm going to immolate you," he commented, almost pleasantly.

"Have fun," Ed managed.

Mustang withered him with one last glare, and then followed the officer away with a long-suffering sigh.

Ed just laughed and laughed and watched as his three students continued to bicker in the sun.

...

_A/N: The fact that it takes three different children to accurately mirror Ed's many facets is indicative. Of something. Hope you all enjoyed, and Happy Reading!_


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: Um...I live? Sorry guys, I know my updates have been sporadic. But I appreciate you guys hanging in there...it means the world to me! _

_So, I had SO MANY people message and review, asking me to write more about Ed and his kids. In fact, so many people asked that I'm considering writing a separate story about Ed's kids and Mustang's group across the years. We'll see, it depends upon time. _

_This story takes place in a kind of AU future (SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE END OF BROTHERHOOD) where Ed lost his alchemy to save Al but continued working for the military. Ed is 22 in this story, and the kids are 18. I didn't mess with any of the ranks (even though I know they would have all moved up by now) because I couldn't actually remember the chain of command and my Google search failed me. _

_Thanks for reading!_

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. _

**Party Foul**

Ed was at a party. A glittering, glamorous affair with attendees decked out in svelte suits and sparkling gowns. The music was smooth and elegant, the finger food refined, and the champagne endlessly flowing. There were enough pretty faces in attendance that most twenty-three year olds would be on the prowl and having a blast.

Ed thought longingly of the books he'd abandoned in his quiet apartment and resented the party for existing at all.

"I want whiskey," he said as Al handed him a fragile flute of champagne.

"Brother. This is a charity ball. A _military sponsored _charity ball. There isn't any whiskey."

"This is Mustang's fault."

Al rolled his eyes and sipped his own champagne before asking, "What is, Brother?"

"All of it. Everything. Ever."

Al had built up a Zen-like tolerance to Mustang-based bitching. So he just smiled and let Ed pout himself into his drink. While Ed was busy discouraging people who looked like they might want to talk to him (by projecting the sheer force of potential to offend at the entire room) Havoc and Breda snuck up to stand at Al's side.

"Wow. Ed's busting out the crazy eyes early this evening," Havoc observed. "I mean, usually he waits until the really important people want to talk to him before he fails to impress them by _terrifying them instead_."

"Like last year," Breda sighed. "With the general. And the smiling. And then the screaming."

"He has new books at home," Al explained, and then said with great patience, "Brother, put your teeth away."

Ed, in an accurate demonstration of how well he listened to orders, stretched his aggressive smile even wider.

"I would ask you to start drinking," Mustang said, appearing out of _nowhere_ with a blank faced and beautifully dressed Hawkeye at his side. "I really would, because it makes you so much more of a pleasant human being, Fullmetal. Unfortunately, I am not allowed to encourage your intoxication. Because of last year."

Ed pivoted to turn the full force of his all-teeth smile at Mustang. However, after years of dealing with Edward Elric and his crazy, Mustang just cocked an eyebrow and smiled at the woman looking horrified over Al's left shoulder.

"Don't know what you're talking about, Bastard," Ed shot back and took a slow, deliberate drink of his champagne like he hadn't been whining for whiskey five minutes ago. "That was the greatest party. The best."

"There are laws," Mustang reminded him. "Brand new laws that were written because of what you did that night. Brand new laws that were _unanimously agreed upon_ by _politicians_, Fullmetal."

"That was such a great night," Havoc said fondly. "I mean, the chainsaw alone-"

"We promised never to speak of it again," Riza interrupted. "There was a pact, Havoc."

"Yes, good," Al agreed.

"Aw, but I want to hear the details!" a new voice sang out.

The entire group froze like they'd just heard the sound of a serial killer creeping out of the shadows. Breda actually _paled_ and Ed hissed over his drink.

Nessa, Callie, and Jake grinned in response. Well, the girls grinned, and Jake offered a kind of sleepy-eyed smile.

"Who let you in," Mustang said, and it really wasn't a question. "Because they are fired, so fired."

The group never got the chance to answer because Ed started waving his arms in the air, drink and all. Havoc ducked before the champagne could destroy his suit.

_"What. What is that thing. That you are almost-wearing."_

_"A dress," Nessa said and batted her eyes at him. Ed resisted the urge to slam his face off the nearest table. "I mean clearly it's a dress, how are you still so bad at girl things, it has glitter and everything."_

_"I can see your….stuff. Your girl stuff. The stuff is everywhere, Nessa." At his shoulder, Mustang snickered into his drink and Ed wondered if he could transmute poison, if that was still a thing._

_"Don't hate," Jake yawned, somehow managing to snuggle into his suit like it was a pair of pajamas. _

_"Seriously," Callie agreed. "Do you know how long it took? To get her into a dress, any dress at all? There were traps, Mr. Elric. Transmutation circles and a catapult."_

_Ed froze and said, "Traps. In the dormitories."_

_Callie re-evaluated her life choices in the space between two heartbeats and said, "Um."_

_"Are they still standing?" Ed managed, and rubbed at his temple where the headache was building. "The dormitories?"_

_"I mean…rubble is like our trademark anyway, right? People expect it when we're around."_

_On Callie's left, Nessa made her eyes huge and sad and whispered, "Daddy Elric doesn't like my girl stuff?"_

_Behind him, Al and Havoc started choking on their horrified giggles and Ed looked hopelessly around the room for a stronger drink or an escape or maybe a convenient enemy assassin to knock him unconscious. _

_"You're responsible for this," Mustang informed him, fingers pinched over the bridge of his nose. "The politicians are in the corner of the room and they look nervous already and __everything __about tonight is going to be on you, Fullmetal."_

_"But Colonel, didn't you miss me?" Nessa said and Mustang froze (She'd called him Sugar Daddy once, two years back. Standing in his office and smirking for all her sixteen-year-old self was worth. Mustang had spent five solid minutes choking and wheezing on the beverage he'd been unfortunate enough to be drinking at that particular moment. Ed had had to exit the room because he was getting laughter-tears all over the carpet). _

_"I did something terrible in a past life," Mustang informed Hawkeye mournfully. "To deserve all these teenagers."_

_…._

_ Fuery was not present for the group's arrival, and therefore not prepared for Nessa to launch herself at him the second he walked through the door. _

_ "What is her thing with him?" Breda asked. "Every time, Ed."_

_ "Nessa loves Fuery," Ed replied around the hand he'd pressed over his face. "Loves him. She thinks he's a snuggly woodland creature."_

_ "Plus, he gave her chocolate once," Callie added. "Which is actually the fastest way to buy Nessa's affection, we tested the theory and everything."_

_ "Control your children, Fullmetal," Mustang said. "Hawkeye, tell him."_

_ "That joke? Still not funny," Ed said._

_ "No, it really is," Havoc insisted. "Remember that time that we papered your door with brand new parent brochures from the medical office? So great."_

_ "Good movement in that dress," Hawkeye said approvingly and Mustang had a tiny aneurism made of panic. _

_ "Are you __training __her?" he hissed and Riza flashed him the blankest of faces. _

_ "Of course not, Sir. She's Edward's charge. Nessa, Callie, Jake and I occasionally have 'girl time'. With chocolate. And gossip. And sometimes weapons and battle strategies."_

_ "Jake is __not even a girl__."_

_ "I'm flexible," the boy said around a yawn. _

_ "Um…Nessa," Al said delicately. "Fuery's face is turning blue. Blue, Nessa, that's not a normal color, maybe let him go now?"_

_ Ed sighed deep and said, "Nessa, loosen the death grip. How many times do I have to tell you that this isn't a fight, you say hi before you strangle, that's how __polite __society works."_

_ "Sir, Yes Sir," Nessa said and let Fuery drop. _

_ "Hey Fuery," Breda said. "Welcome to the party."_

_ Fuery wheezed against the floor tiles. _

_…._

_ Falman's arrival was also marked. Not by a flying tackle-hug that caused a General's wife to shriek in alarm, but by the sudden and silent absence of a member of the trio. _

_ "Jake's missing," Callie said. _

_ Mustang tensed and said, "Is that bad?"_

_ Ed shook his head and waved him off. "It means Falman's here."_

_ Callie, Havoc, and Ed found them in a corner fifteen minutes later. They weren't speaking, but their shoulders were touching as they leaned up against the wall and watched the party. _

"No equations this time," Ed told them. "I'm serious, Falman. Mustang will start politely flipping the tables if he has to pay to re-paint Jake's wall math again."

Falman smirked a little, and nodded. Jake pressed against the wall like it was the only thing holding him up and gave Ed a surprisingly sweet smile.

"Hi Falman," Callie added brightly before they walked away.

"You're not going to stay with them?" Havoc asked. "Keep an eye on Jake?"

"Jake likes the quiet," Ed replied. "Especially at things like this."

"Lots of people know how smart Jake is, especially after the last mission we went on," Callie said. "But they ask him all kinds of questions that he doesn't want to answer."

"So, he stays with Falman," Ed finished. "Falman doesn't care if he talks; he likes it quiet, too."

Havoc was quiet as they worked their way back to the group (it wasn't difficult-people practically leapt away from the resurgence of Ed's crazy eyes). Mustang was out greasing wheels and shaking hands but everyone else was still huddled together, like they always did at events outside the office, caught and comfortable in the orbit of each other. They were watching with a kind of horrified amusement as Nessa waved aggressively in Falman's general direction, nearly taking out two officers and a tray of finger food.

"It's creepy," someone next to Breda whispered. "Look at them, they're not even talking."

"Of course they're talking," Breda snapped and then dragged Nessa away because she'd heard the comment too and looked ready to pounce.

"You just can't see it," Fuery added, with a smile because he understood that the orbit of their group looked so strange to anyone outside of it.

….

Forty-five minutes eventful minutes later (Nessa had scandalized an entire battalion of military wives by transmuting her 'really fucking impractical shoes' into army boots-while the female officers in the room looked on in silent approval, Callie had disappeared with Hawkeye to Mustang's hilariously straight-faced panic, and Jake had gotten into a lazily spoken but angry eyed fight-not fight, Jake destroyed him and how did Ed keep forgetting about his epic temper-with the smarmy Colonel who'd wandered over just to tell Jake everything he'd gotten wrong on his last mission), Al and Breda were pretty much pinning Edward to the wall as they watched some slick-haired officer lean into Callie's personal space.

"Let me go, I'm not gonna hurt him!"

"Doubt," Al replied. "So much doubt, Brother."

"I'm just going to break his fingers. Just his fingers, Al, so that's all right."

"Wow," Breda said and pinned a little harder. "Hawkeye's there, Ed. She's not going to let anything happen."

Havoc, who was watching the scene with a great deal of amusement, said, "C'mon Boss. Callie _is_ eighteen, you know."

Ed went very still. His head swiveled in Havoc's direction and he stared with the eyes of a predator.

"Brother," Al said warningly, but Breda just snorted and let Ed loose.

"No, that's fine," he said. "You can beat on Havoc, that's allowed."

Havoc shrieked a little (because he had pride but he also knew better) but Mustang appeared out of nowhere, his Edward Elric damage control sensor finely tuned, and snagged Ed by the back of his suit jacket.

"Leash it, Fullmetal," Mustang said. "Callie is a big girl. She doesn't need a babysitter."

"He has his hands _all over her_."

"Okay," Mustang said reasonably. "Okay, no he actually doesn't. He's not even touching her, Fullmetal, wow."

Ed hissed and said, "But he's thinking about it."

"You need to learn-"Mustang started, but then he stopped. Because the officer who was hitting on Callie had a commanding officer, who had slimed his way up to Riza's side and was currently leering at the low cut of her dress.

"I need to learn?" Ed repeated.

"Standard flanking pattern," Mustang said, smile so aggressively pleasant that it sent a man on his left skittering away towards safety.

"Got it."

They moved their way through the crowd and the crowd, not being completely stupid, shifted quickly out of the way. They were just approaching Callie and Hawkeye, and Ed's blood was beginning to pump in the anticipation of a good beat down, when he heard Callie loudly and cheerfully proclaim, "And that's how I completed the mission by choking a man with my thighs!"

Mustang made a noise like he'd run right into a wall. Ed snorted in spite of himself at the way the blood drained from slick-haired officer's face. The commanding officer who was invading Riza's space stared at Callie for a moment before turning back to the woman in question.

"Is that…one of your soldiers?" he asked.

"No," Hawkeye said with a benevolent smile. "Not mine, sir."

The commanding officer resumed his leering.

"She did, however, learn many of her fighting moves from me," Hawkeye added with great serenity and the commanding officer went as pale as his subordinate.

"I'm going to…go," he said. "Away. Quickly."

"Of course, sir."

The man brushed by Mustang in his hurry to get away. Hawkeye turned to follow his progress and seemed not at all surprised to see her superior standing behind her.

"Come to save the day, sir?" she asked and Mustang rallied quickly from his instinctive wince.

"Fullmetal was concerned," he said coolly. "For Callie's virtue. I thought I would accompany him so as to avoid another international incident."

"Oh, really," Callie said with a smile as gentle as Hawkeye's own.

Ed felt his blood freeze in his veins and said, "Uh."

"No wonder she's your favorite," Mustang muttered.

….

Introducing Nessa and Armstrong remained the worst possible idea, and Ed was never actually going to forgive Havoc for doing it.

Because Armstrong? Loved Nessa. And it was so amazingly, horribly mutual. The first time they'd met, they'd ended up destroying the outer office (but not Hawkeye's desk because even Armstrong knew better). The second time they'd met, they'd moved their 'frivolity' (as Armstrong called it) outside at Mustang's loud and desperate insistence, only to stagger back in three hours later covered in rubble and hollering gleefully about 'so much broken, oh my God'. And the higher ranking officers had learned, after only one mission, that assigning Ness and Armstrong together on a mission was a recipe for disaster in the shape of emotionally traumatized civilians and property damage that challenged even Ed's impressive record.

Which was why, when Ed heard a booming, "GREETINGS NESSA, COMRADE IN ARMS AND DAUGHTER OF MY HEART" he dropped the champagne glass he was holding and ran in a way usually reserved for life or death situations.

Nessa was already wrapped in Armstrong's embrace, feet all the way off the ground.

Ed opened with "No" because it needed to be said.

Nessa was ignoring him, in the way she did whenever she found his orders inconvenient and laughing as she slapped at Armstrong's shoulders.

"Was waiting for you to get here!" she said. "It's been so, so boring, Alex. Save me."

"As my lady orders, so shall it be!" Armstrong thundered and popped her gently back on her feet. "What game have you crafted for us this time?"

"No," Ed repeated, a little desperately.

"It's your turn," Nessa said. "I came up with the game last time, it's your turn Alex, don't be lazy."

Armstrong tapped his chin and said, "Arm wrestling is a skill passed down the Armstrong line for-"

"Holy shit, _no_," Ed interrupted, because Nessa's eyes were already starting to glow.

"Hell yes," she countered. "Don't listen to the boring one, Alex, let's-let's do this shit, I'll get a table."

"Okay," Ed babbled, because this was spiraling so very quickly. "Okay, let's just…take a step back for a second. Armstrong, remember last time? With the visit up north and the snowball fight and the ice dragon, remember that?"

Armstrong winced and said, "Ah. Yes. My sister was most displeased."

"She definitely was," Ed agreed rapidly. "And do you remember what she told you?"

He didn't move to cover his manly area, but it was a near thing. "Yes, Edward Elric, I do."

"Great," Ed said. "Great, so where do we keep the property damage?"

"Colonel Mustang's headquarters only."

From across the crowd, Ed could almost hear Mustang's squawk of outrage, which was really his own fault for having ears like a bat.

"You are the worst," Nessa told him. "The actual worst, you destroy my fun always and forever." But she was grinning.

And Ed grinned back at her, because he'd never actually been able to help it.

"If you bring down another chandelier I'll wring your neck," Ed told her fondly.

…

Ed was sitting, finally sitting, when a General found the nerve to talk to him.

"_Really_," he whined into the champagne that he didn't even want and then turned to face the General's smarmy grin.

For fifteen agonizing minutes, Ed listened as the General waxed poetic about Ed's alchemic past. As he rapturously described the missions Ed had undergone and expressed his 'everlasting regret' about Ed's current lack of 'physical power'.

And Ed, never one for staying quiet but forced to hold his tongue (because the new Fuhrer had made it clear that he already questioned Ed's ability to train his kids without alchemy of his own, that he was considering relocating them to 'more effective management' and when was Mustang going to overthrow this guy already) deliberately eased his fingers off of the champagne glass because his arm was no longer automail but he was about to shatter it all the same.

Ed was just imagining how wonderful it would be to show this General just how 'qualified' he was by feeding him his fist, when bodies dropped into the chairs on either side of him, and another presence took up the space at his shoulder.

"There you are, Sir," Nessa said and Edward shut his eyes for a moment because that was the special kind of anger in her voice, the one that resulted in explosions and weeping politicians.

On one side, Callie was smiling wide and bright enough to clean bone. And on his other side, Jake was sitting at perfect parade rest for once, spine straight and ready instead of curving.

"I'm afraid we need to borrow Major Elric for a moment," Callie said sweetly, but way too sweetly, Ed had once seen her smile like that and then knock a man unconscious with his own show.

"Come on, Sir," Jake urged and wasn't that a marvel, _Jake_ forcing him to move, and Ed did so while repressing a snort because his kids calling him 'Sir' would never not be _absolutely ridiculous_.

"But," the general started and then Mustang was there, sliding into Ed's abandoned seat with a smooth smile and a ready remark. Hawkeye was at his side, helping hide Ed from view as his kids hustled him away. Al caught his eye as they walked and smiled in a way that told Ed he'd seen what was going on and possibly been the one to sic his kids on it.

They found a mostly secluded corner behind an unnecessarily large potted plant. They grouped together, Jake reclining against the plant, Callie closest to the party, and Nessa against the wall at his side. Closing ranks, Ed recognized, and felt something warm rocket down his spine.

"I didn't need a rescue," Ed said, quietly for once.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Callie smile (her real smile this time, soft and warm) and Jake laugh a little at the ceiling.

"Whatever, Teach," Nessa said and bumped her shoulder against his.

And just because they were hidden, Ed let himself smile a little at the floor.


End file.
